The Other Mockingjay
by MockingJayFlyingFree
Summary: Katniss and Peeta weren't reaped for the Quarter Quell. Instead, they were forced by Snow to get married as soon as they turned 18. How does their marriage change the future of Panem? Will there still be a rebellion - when Snow is controlling the Mockingjay? The sequel to The Wedding.
1. Chapter 1: A Breakfast to remember

**_Why is it that every time I write that I'm NOT going to write a sequel – I do? ROFL I was determined not to do it when I'd finished The Wedding. I was really happy about how I'd ended it, and I thought that if I were to write a sequel, I'd have to get into a very complicated political plot, and I didn't want to do that._**

**_But guess what - that's what I'm going to do after all…_**

**_So here we go! I'm pretty nervous about doing it, but the potential and the challenge were just irresistible. There were several people who reviewed or PMed and asked for more (you know who you are!), and you managed to get me curious about what would happen. So I guess I have to write it to find out myself what happens!_**

**_If you haven't read The Wedding before, I strongly suggest that you do so now. For those of you that haven't - what's happened so far is that instead of being reaped for the Quarter Quell, Katniss and Peeta were forced to get married as soon as they turned 18. On the morning of their wedding, Snow told Katniss that she had still not convinced him that her feelings for Peeta were real, and said that they must consummate their marriage on their wedding night. If they didn't, Prim would be reaped in the upcoming 7_****_6th _****_Hunger Games, and both Peeta and Katniss would be sold to the highest paying sponsors the next morning. So, well, what could they do? They finally did the dirty deed! _**

**_This fic starts just where I left off – at breakfast on the morning after Katniss and Peeta got married, which in the Capitol is a social event and essentially a part of the wedding festivities. Here are the last couple of paragraphs, just to refresh your memory:_**

_And then, looking at the other victors around the table, I realize that Snow has made a mistake - again. Yesterday, he wanted to control us, to break us. What he's done instead, is bind us more closely together. Not just Peeta and me, but all the victors. In the two of us - in Peeta's goodness, and in my purity and resilience - they have found something to unite them. That's what the other districts see in us._

_We are defiant. Peeta and I played their game in the arena, yet we bent the rules, and we got out alive. Together. Yesterday, we were again forced to play Snow's game, but we emerge stronger than we were before._

_And I know that something starts here, today. I can feel it in the air. See it in the glances the other victors send us. We have shown them that the Capitol can be outsmarted in their own vicious game._

_Peeta's hand is still holding mine underneath the table. His fingers are warm and strong around mine, I give them a small squeeze._

_And I know this is only the beginning._

* * *

**Chapter one: A breakfast to remember**

There's a fire burning inside me. It was lit by Peeta.

But it was also lit by the Hunger Games. By the closed, gaunt, hungry faces I saw on our Victory Tour of the districts. By the other victors, seeing how many of them simply haven't been able to live a normal life after the Games. Broken, drugged, sold, destroyed. By seeing the contrast between the starving children in the districts and the revolting extravagance of the Capitol.

It was also lit by Snow. I will never forget what he made us do. I will never forgive.

But then I look across the table, at Prim. My beloved Prim, looking far too pretty - and far too mature. She's 14 already. When did she stop being a little girl?

She's still of reaping age. She will be for years.

And I know that Snow has the upper hand. As long as he can use our families against us, he is in effect holding us hostage. I send a stolen look to Peeta, who's chatting with my mother and Prim. Peeta is just so… amiable. He knows exactly how to make people feel at ease. He's even made my mother loosen up.

I think about the things he did to me last night, about what he did to me with his tongue and his hands and his cock, and I'm a bit surprised that he has the nerve to talk to my **mother** as if nothing's happened.

"I've never had a son, Peeta," she tells him, "but I'm so happy to have one now, and I really can't wait for you to be part of our family." She really means it, I realize. Our family, torn and broken and incomplete. That's quite something to be a part of. Not to mention that she's fallen for Peeta – not fallen as in fallen in love, but she's fallen for his irresistible charm. I've got to give it to him, he's great with people.

"Mrs Mellark has never had a daughter before, either," Prim says, looking over at Peeta's mother, who's sitting a few places down from her by the table. "Won't it be wonderful to have a daughter, Mrs Mellark?"

I have to bite my lip to keep a sarcastic remark back, and Peeta's mother looks like she's eaten a lemon. "Certainly," she answers, but her voice is cold and hard. Even Peeta can't think of anything to say to smooth it over, and there's an uncomfortable silence around the table.

Again.

I can **feel** that Snow looks at me with his snake-like eyes, the only thing in the room that's colder than Mrs Mellark's voice as she talks about me. "It certainly was an amazing wedding," Snow says, and for a second I wonder where he's going with this. Snow never says anything to smooth things over, he doesn't say anything just to say it. There is always a purpose, a hidden meaning. "That was quite a performance yesterday, Mr and Mrs Mellark." I freeze at his words, as does Peeta.

So Snow does know. He probably has seen the footage of us personally. By "yesterday", he doesn't mean the wedding day – he means last night - how we consummated our marriage, has he himself put it. "It was really heartwarming, to see you two so much in love. Madly in love, as they say."

I finally manage to bring up the courage to look at him, he's sitting on the opposite side of the table, two chairs down from my mother.

The warning is crystal clear.

Keep it up. We're watching you.

Peeta's knuckles are white as he's gripping around the glass of orange juice, for a second I'm afraid the glass will break. "Yesterday was a dream come true," Peeta says, putting the glass down on the table, saving it from destruction. Yet the clunk it makes is a bit too loud. He suddenly turns to me, his eyes are nearly black. I can see how he's trying very hard to control his anger. He knows what's at stake.

The kiss takes me by complete surprise. My first reaction is to resist because it's so sudden and unexpected, but his strong hands don't allow me to move away from him. There is something almost vicious about the kiss – it's a shockingly indiscreet public display of affection, considering we're talking about Peeta, but I allow his probing tongue to invade my mouth. I can feel the anger, I can almost taste it.

Even this morning, Snow's mocking us, calling what happened between us last night a performance.

It would be so easy to get lost in his kiss, but I have to try to smooth things over. There is too much at stake, it's too dangerous. I'm also very much aware of the fact that my sister is watching. And my mother. Not to mention his mother… And the rest of his family.

There is too much at stake here. They are all so vulnerable. And Peeta and I are vulnerable because of them.

I break the kiss with a laugh, pretending to sound innocent, embarrassed and happy like I imagine a blushing bride on the morning after her wedding is supposed to be, when her husband displays to the world just what he did to her the night before. Did he really read Effie's stupid book? I wonder. I break our kiss. "Peeta, love… Not with everyone here…." I try to sound like one of those airheads in Capitol soap operas. I feel disgusted with myself, but this is a show, too.

I have to play my part.

I meet his eyes, and the anger is still there. My hand gives his shoulder a warning squeeze.

Get it together.

"Sorry, Katniss, but you know… Hard to resist," he answers. Saying something like that in public is so unlike him, but he's back in the act. Our display of public affection is also playing it right up the Capitol alley.

Finnick Odair's impossibly sea green eyes are twinkling at me from across the table, he's sitting just between my mother and Snow. Finnick has always been one of Snow's favorites, and one of the most profiled victors in Panem history.

"So, where are you going on honeymoon?" Effie says, and I silently thank her for coming to our rescue, whether it was deliberate or not.

"We're actually not going on honeymoon," I tell her, and Effie squeals. Going on honeymoon is another one of those stupid Capitol rituals – where newlyweds go to an exotic holiday destination to have wild and complicated sex for two weeks before they return home and their lives of domestic boredom begin. This is of course something which is totally unheard of in District 12, where you can't leave the district at all without a permit, which you won't get, and besides, the groom always has to go work in the mines the day after the wedding, anyway. "Honeymoon" is simply a word that doesn't exist in the District 12 vocabulary.

"We considered it, but then found that we just really want to be home, together with the people we love," Peeta tells her, and I can tell he's truly back on track.

The reality is that our honeymoon had apparently already been booked, though obviously not by us it was somewhere by the beach in District four. The TV crew had even been booked, the publicity plan was ready. But suddenly, just a few days before the wedding, the honeymoon was cancelled, and no one would tell us why. Not that we minded, we just wanted to go home as soon as possible anyway, but there was something not quite right about it.

"That's really too bad," Effie says apologetically, and then goes on to tell everyone excitedly about all her three honeymoons. I sigh a small sigh of relief. I can always count on Effie to talk about nothing forever, keeping everyone occupied and avoiding sensitive subjects.

Our train back to District 12 leaves in the afternoon, and I just can't wait to get on it. I'm exhausted. I hate this place.

Effie keeps everyone talking about honeymoons, rude servants and how terrible salt water is for her hair for the rest of the meal. Bless her. She gets into a heated discussion with Johanna about the virtues of salt water versus fresh water, which is quite entertaining for a while. Between the two of them, they manage to keep everyone busy enough to stay off potentially embarrassing or dangerous subjects.

From the stolen looks Johanna sends me, I know it's not a coincidence. She's trying to help me out, and I feel so grateful that she's going to these lengths - talking to Effie, who I know she detests - to help me. I think Effie is doing the same thing, too, even though I don't think she's talked to Johanna about it in advance. Effie does love attention, that's true, but this is much, even for her.

Finnick is one of the first to leave the table, he's waving a white envelope in the air, winking and saying he has some business to attend to.

I feel sick.

Before he leaves, he comes over to Peeta and me, telling us goodbye in case he doesn't have time to catch us before our train leaves in the afternoon. He first shakes hands with Peeta, and then he gives me a kiss on each cheek, each of them lasting just a little bit too long. After the second one, he looks down at the curve of my neck, and he… smells me. He closes his eyes and takes in my scent, like I'm a beautiful flower. "Mmmmm, you smell nice, Katniss," he says in that seductive voice of his. "You smell like you're… Ripe. Finally." I freeze. What on earth is he talking about?

He laughs when he sees that I don't understand. "What I mean is that you smell like, well, sex, Katniss. You were always so pure, but… You're not quite as pure this morning as you were yesterday, are you?" I blush furiously, I can't believe he'll say something like this in front of everyone – not to mention our mothers.

"Finnick!" I hiss, and Peeta seems to have choked on something.

"I don't know what you did to her yesterday, Peetaboy, but it seems to have worked. Just give me a call if you need some advice, okay? I know how to make them purr like kittens in bed." He winks at me, and then leaves with a huge grin on his face.

I'm close to tears, and Peeta just looks stunned.

Prim looks as red as I certainly am as well, but my mother isn't, she just observes me closely with a slightly puzzled look in her eyes. I know she's thinking about the conversation we had yesterday, putting two and two together. She looks… worried.

My mother is a lot of things, but she's not stupid. She knows that something is up, but she doesn't know what exactly is going on. There are a lot of things about the Capitol that she doesn't know about – such as how victors are treated. She believes in the lies we were all told: That victors are being treated nearly like royalty, living the rest of their lives in luxury.

Reality, however, is quite different. I have to try to keep these things away from her, but I don't know if I can. Peeta's mother looks both angry and embarrassed, and his two brothers are openly laughing, the only two persons in the room who are.

"Well, it's time for me to leave this party as well," Johanna says, and I guess I shouldn't be surprised when she suddenly opens the zipper of her dress, which falls to the floor – and underneath it she is, of course, stark naked. "Are you two coming?" To my great surprise, Peeta actually follows her, after briefly thanking everyone for attending our wedding and also this breakfast, making a lame excuse about us having to pack our things before our train leaves. All we have is one overnight bag each, so needing several hours to pack is clearly excessive. What Peeta is in effect doing, is running away from this breakfast, which has been nothing but embarrassing and awkward. Although following a naked Johanna seems inappropriate, it is definitely better than staying, even though we are perhaps rude - but who cares about Capitol standards of rudeness? So what if they think we just can't wait to be on our own to make love again?

I couldn't care less.

Our families follow us, too, I guess we weren't the only ones who found breakfast unbearable.

I have no idea how Peeta manages to talk to Johanna when she's stark naked save for her gold pumps, but he does, like nothing's happened. How can he ignore her breasts that are practically in his face like that? It's not the first time she's pulled this stunt on us – on **me** – and I am mortified, every time. And Peeta's mother does not look happy about it at all, especially not when Johanna and Peeta, happily chatting away about baking, are walking towards the elevator together. I glance unhappily at Johanna's ass, which is, well... Perfect, really.

As we wait for the elevator, Mrs Mellark – the other Mrs Mellark, I suddenly realize that I am also Mrs Mellark now, and the thought makes me queasy - hisses: "Have you no shame?" to Johanna.

Johanna just laughs and says: "No!" after which there is nothing left to say. Mrs Mellark's mouth opens and closes like a fish on land, but not a single word comes out, which is a definite improvement.

Johanna gets off on the fourth floor, but just before she gets off, she whispers, nearly inaudibly, to Peeta and me: "Be careful, you two." She turns around to look at us before the elevator doors close. She's still only wearing her gold pumps with the impossibly high heels, but there is nothing funny or embarrassing about the warning in her eyes.

She knows something.

Why does everyone around here seem to know something we don't? Everything is a maze of secrets. Secrets my mother can't know about. Secrets no one is letting me in on.

Secrets that could potentially kill me. Or Prim. Or Peeta.

* * *

_**Love it? Hate it? Please review! **_


	2. Chapter 2: The keeper of secrets

_**First of all, a big thank you to everyone who reviewed chapter one! I posted the chapter just before I went to bed, and woke up to 21 reviews! You really made my day! You have no idea how inspiring it is to write when I get such a massive response from my readers. I haven't gotten around to thanking everyone, so I'll just do it collectively here. Some of you wrote ideas that I may or may not have considered already LOL, you'll find out in time whether or not you'll get your wishes fulfilled. ;) And thank you to the Guest who wrote that Finnick has sea green eyes - you are right, I've corrected it now. Thank you! I was just thinking of the actor playing Finnick in the upcoming Catching Fire when I wrote it, I think (yum). Also thank you to everyone who's favorited and followed my story!**_

**_This fic has a quite slow start, as there's a lot that needs to be covered before we get into the main plot. Plus there are so many characters that are actually alive(!), as the Quarter Quell didn't involve existing victors plus the various family members and other characters that were killed in Mockingjay are obviously alive. This gives me so much more to play with, but it also complicates things. I've written eight chapters already, and I haven't even gotten to the 76th Hunger Games... _**

**_By the way, if you have any suggestions as to the design of the arena of the 76th Hunger Games, feel free to send me a PM or write it in a review! I just might incorporate it. I haven't decided on the arena yet._**

* * *

**Chapter two: The keeper of secrets**

When Peeta and I finally get back to our room, it's as if we were never there in the first place. Everything is cleaned up, and the bed looks like it has never been slept in. Except for our overnight bags, which look pretty shaggy and worn compared to the fancy honeymoon suite, it looks like no one's living here. I lie down in the bed, shaking. Johanna's eyes are still haunting me.

We are playing a game here, but no one's told me the rules. In the Hunger Games it was actually easier, in a way - it was kill or be killed. At least I knew what was expected of me. What are the rules now?

Then I realize they've changed the bed sheets, too. The blood stains from last night aren't there anymore, the bed sheets are crisp and fresh and white. I blush, wondering just what they could be doing with the bloody one from yesterday. Auctioning it to sponsors? Offering it for free to the top paying sponsors, perhaps, as poor consolation that they didn't get the honor of having me for the first time themselves?

I feel sick.

Peeta lies down next to me, holding me. With his arms around me, I start crying. Heavy, deep sobs, I cry like I've never cried before. He doesn't say anything, he just holds me, stroking my back and my hair.

He knows there is nothing to say.

Finally, there are no tears left. We lie there for a long time in silence, together. My tears dry up, my cheeks feel sticky. "What do we do now?" I whisper to him.

"We go home and try to live," he answers.

There's a knock on the door. I want to ignore it, but whoever it is doesn't go away. After the third knock, a voice shouts: "Let me in! It's Finnick. I know you're in there, lovebirds! It doesn't matter if you're not decent, nothing you would be doing could surprise me anyway."

Cursing under his breath, Peeta gets out of bed to open the door.

"There you are, kids," he says. He has a hickey on his neck that he didn't have two hours ago. His hair is disheveled, and his eyes are hollow.

Both Peeta and I know what he's been doing.

He sees me lying in bed, my eyes red-rimmed, and knows I've been crying. "Peeta, if a woman is crying in your bed, it usually means you're doing something wrong," he says, as if he's explaining maths to a ten-year-old.

"If you came here to insult us, you might as well just leave right now," Peeta hisses.

"Sorry. Old habits die hard. I just wanted to see you before you're off to 12. You know, what with you having to stay safe and all."

That's what Snow told us as well. I get out of bed, walk over to him, and lean in close. My index finger trails his neck, across his hickey. He flinches.

Finnick knows something, too.

"So it's not about money anymore, is it, Finnick?"

He shakes his head, serious now.

"What do they offer you in return for your... services?"

"Secrets." His green eyes meet mine, but I can't read any emotion in them. Finnick knows all too well how to hide what he's really thinking.

This surprises me. "You get paid in… secrets?"

"Yes. Well, I'm sure Snow gets paid in hard cash, too... But all my clients know that they'll get so much **more** if they add a little something extra. Just for me."

I don't want to think about just what that "more" that he's giving involves. "I bet there's a lot you could tell us."

"There is. But I won't."

Can't. It's in his eyes. He **can't** tell us, it's not that he doesn't want to. He knows these rooms are bugged, too. He probably took a big risk just coming here. Unless Snow already knows what he's telling us?

"I just wanted to make sure that you're careful," he says. "Stay safe, Mrs Mockingjay."

"Mockingjay?" I'm confused. What is he talking about?

"You don't even know?" He cocks an eyebrow. "You have to start paying attention, Katniss. You have to learn how to play the game. Peeta's starting to learn, but you… You have to open your eyes. Why do you think you're not going on honeymoon after all? You must sense **something**, I mean, you did do as you were told yesterday, didn't you?"

I can't lie to him. How does he know what Snow ordered us to do? "Yes."

He gives me a farewell kiss, but this time it's on my mouth. His lips are all too sensual, too trained, too soft. If the kiss is supposed to be friendly, it lasts just a little bit too long. "I knew as soon as I saw you this morning. I can spot a virgin from a mile away. And this morning… You weren't a virgin anymore." His voice is husky in my ear. "You both think you know what's at stake here, but you're wrong." He puts an index finger to his lips, and then to mine.

He turns to Peeta. "Stay safe. Both of you. See you at the 76th annual Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor."

He leaves us standing there, stunned.


	3. Chapter 3: Drowning in a sea of roses

_**I got complaints that last chapter was too short. LOL So this one is a bit longer! I think they'll vary quite a lot in length, so please bear with me. **_

* * *

**Chapter three: Drowning in a sea of roses**

When we board the train in the afternoon, a cheering crowd of Capitol nuts is there to see us off. The roar is deafening as Peeta, by popular demand, nearly sucks my tonsils out. I'm absolutely exhausted, and by the time the train doors silently slide shut behind us, I'm actually holding on to Peeta simply to avoid falling, as I fear my legs won't carry my weight. He quickly steers me into the living room compartment, getting me some ice cold water. My mother and Prim follow us, but Peeta's family, as well as Gale and his family, have gone to their rooms instead. Haymitch is probably in the bar.

"Would you two mind telling me what's going on?" My mother says as the door closes behind us, she's clearly worried.

I close my eyes. My hands are shaking so badly I'm spilling water on the mahogany table. Finally, I look up at her. "It's just… been a few really long days," I finally tell her. Which is not a lie, but it's not the full truth, either.

Her eyes narrow. "He has something on you, doesn't he?"

My mother doesn't have to specify who "he" is. Then she looks at Prim, pale and with her blue eyes filled with tears. The truth seems to dawn on her, at least partially - just what Snow has on me. I don't want my mother to know, and I certainly don't want Prim to know, but perhaps they'll be more careful if they at least know parts of what's going on.

"What happened last night?"

I pale, and Peeta's hand finds mine. "Nothing that wouldn't have… happened eventually anyway," I finally whisper. Peeta kisses my forehead, but he looks sad.

I've rarely seen my mother angry. I've seen her happy – with my father, so long ago. I've seen her heartbroken, devastated, depressed, nearly suicidal – after my father died. And I've seen her only exist, not really living, an empty shell - for year after year. But this angry? Never, until now. "Katniss, what is that man doing to you two?" She's holding my face between her hands, they are surprisingly strong for such a frail woman.

"It was Peeta or… The highest bidder," I whisper. My mother won't let me go, she's forcing me to meet her eyes.

They are on fire.

I suddenly see myself in her. That slow-burning fuse, the anger that, once ignited, will not subside. I'm not like my father, who I so dearly loved. I don't have his loving disposition, his positive outlook on life. I am like my mother - I see my own strengths and weaknesses reflected in her. It's scary to look into the eyes of my mother, who I for so long resented and even despised at times because I found her weak, because she betrayed her daughters - and realize that I'm like her. For better or for worse, I can't say.

I absentmindedly notice that Prim's crying, as if far away.

"So much for victors living in luxury for the rest of their lives," she finally whispers, looking up at Peeta. He's staring at the floor, as if ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Everdeen", he says, he sounds like he's close to tears, too.

"Don't be. None of this is your fault. I saw you two this morning, and I saw that you were… Different than the day before. But in a good way. The way Katniss looked at you... I hoped it meant that…" her voice trails off.

"Mom, this is important," I say insistently. You have to be careful." I glance around the room, nodding very discreetly in the direction of the nearest wall. I hope she gets the point. "When we come home, too. Just… Try not to attract attention. Be careful. Don't talk. To **anyone**. Peeta and I will be alright. Okay?"

Her face tells me that this is absolutely not okay, not at all, but she still nods.

* * *

When we sit in the lounge after dinner, together with the rest of the District 12 party, I'm so exhausted I fall asleep. Peeta and I sit in a plush red velvet couch together, my feet drawn up under me. I lean more and more heavily on him, his steady heartbeat underneath my ear lulling me to sleep.

I am swimming in a sea of white roses. The thorns pierce through my skin, but when I try to retract from one thorn, two others pierce me instead. I try to stay afloat, but even though I'm an excellent swimmer, I sink. My skin is shred to pieces by the thorns. I sink into the sea of white roses, the synthetic smell is overpowering, and then the petals enter my mouth, my nose. I can't breathe. I'm suffocating. I want to scream, to gasp for air, but I can't. The petals are drawn into my lungs, as I desperately fight for survival.

"Katniss! Katniss!" I'm woken up by Peeta, shaking me almost violently. "It's just a dream! It's not real! Wake up!" I open my eyes, and see all of them standing around me. Peeta's family. My family. Gale and his family.

Haymitch. He looks older than I've ever seen him. So tired.

Peeta's holding me, and I break down in his arms. My throat is hurting, and I realize it's not from nearly being drowned in rose petals, it's from me screaming my head off. I should be too ashamed to be having a breakdown in front of everyone, scaring them. Showing them my weakness. But the tension is just too much, the burden of these last few days has been too heavy. My body is shaking from violent sobs, crying into Peeta's shirt.

"Peeta, why don't you take her to your room?" Haymitch suggests gently, with a hand on his shoulder. He wisely avoids touching me. I suppose he's no stranger to nightmares. "Do you need some sleeping pills?"

I shake my head. "They make it worse," Peeta says, his voice low. "You just get... trapped in the dream longer."

He should know. He has nightmares, too.

Peeta scoops me up in his arms and carries me to our compartment. As we leave the room, I glance quickly at the others from over Peeta's shoulder. Gale's jaws are clenched, his seam gray eyes dark in anger. Peeta's father looks confused and scared, but his mother looks angry and mutters something I can't quite hear. Prim's crying. My mother looks helpless, but at least she and Prim both know more about my nightmares than the others, they've heard me screaming on so many nights – and they know that Peeta is the only one who can help me through them. The others haven't been exposed to my nightmares before. They simply don't know what the Hunger Games did to me, how the nightmares now haunt me at night. How can you truly know if you haven't been there yourself? How can you imagine what it's like, fighting for your life in the arena?

As he lays me down on the bed, what is now officially **our** bed for the two-day journey, I say to him: "She hates me."

"Who?"

"Your mother."

"She hates everyone," he says with a sad smile. "Don't take it personally."

"But it is personal," I answer, and he finally nods. We both know, now, that his father was in love with my mother. And that she chose my father, the miner with the heavenly voice, instead of the merchant baker. This is something Peeta's mother can never forgive – that she was his second choice. She was a comfort, a consolation. And now her youngest son is married to the daughter of the only woman her husband has ever loved.

He helps me take off my clothes, I feel so numb that I can't even bring myself to lift my hands. There is nothing sexual about him removing my dress, the dress I was forced to wear for the cameras as we left the Capitol because my hunting clothes were deemed not worthy, it's like he's helping a child.

As he tucks me in, he says, "Try to sleep, Katniss. We're going home now. It's been a few long days. You'll feel better in the morning."

I nod. I'm sure I will. With every mile that separates me from the Capitol, I feel better. Even though I know I can never truly escape. "Stay with me," I whisper, and he laughs, stroking my hair.

"I'm not going anywhere, Katniss," he answers. He gets into bed together with me, holds me in his arms and whispers loving words to me until I start to fall asleep.

The sounds from the train are strangely soothing.

We're going home.

* * *

I wake up to the sounds of the train just exiting a tunnel. The morning sun is shining in through the window. Peeta is awake, I'm not sure if he's been awake all night, or if he just woke up before me. His face looks gaunt and drawn.

This is the second morning we wake up together as husband and wife.

"Did you have nightmares?" I ask him, tracing his jaw with one finger.

He nods.

"Did you sleep at all?"

He shrugs. "Here and there. I've mostly been watching you sleep, though." Watching over me. "Did you have any more nightmares after… The one earlier?"

Memories from last night come back to me. I should've known better. I shouldn't have fallen asleep among so many people, most of them knowing nothing about how my – our – nights are. I must come across as a lunatic now – to Gale, but even worse, to Peeta's family. I can only imagine what his mother must be thinking – not only is her son married to a scowling hunter who knows nothing about cooking and cleaning, she is also a nut who's screaming her head off in her sleep.

Great.

I shake my head. No more nightmares that I can remember. He kisses my forehead lighty. "You looked… Peaceful. And tired. How are you… feeling? About everything." I can tell it's hard for him to ask that question, and it's difficult to answer it, too. But I know I can't shy away from it. We have to keep talking, we have to communicate.

"I'm still… trying to process everything. It's been… pretty overwhelming."

"For me, too. I just wanted to know if we were, you know, okay. With what… we did on our wedding night." He's blushing now, looking… insecure. Scared.

I'm scared, too.

"I'm angry that we were put in that situation… But I don't know if I'm sorry it happened. I mean, I wish it would've happened at a time and place that we chose, but I think that we… did the best that we could. Considering the circumstances."

There's a shadow of a smile playing on his lips now. "I think so, too. I've been thinking about it all the time since… All day yesterday. And last night. I hope I didn't do anything – too quickly? I mean, I know it hurt, and…"

"It didn't hurt that much, really," I smile back, shyly. "It was nothing compared to the… good stuff I was feeling." It's hard to look him in the eye now, I'm not used to talking about how I feel, not to mention sex.

"Do you think we'll… do it again sometime?" I can barely hear his voice now, his whisper is so low.

I lean in to kiss him. "Yes," I whisper. There's a new light in his blue eyes, they were so tired, but now there's more life in them. "Not now, but… Later. When it feels right and it's… just us."

His fingers are combing through my hair, again and again. He nods. "Katniss, I know that you may not feel the same way about me that I do about you. I know this is sudden. But I just want you to know that if you need time, or feel that we're… too much... Please let me know? Okay?"

I suddenly realize how difficult it must be for him, to get married to the girl he always dreamed of, knowing that it's something she was forced to do. I didn't even realize I was crying myself until I hear my own voice saying "okay".

We lie there together for a long time, until our stomachs are growling. Being in the Hunger Games also taught us that we need to eat whenever we can, because you never know if it might be your last meal. In fact, that's a lesson I learned the hard way years before the Hunger Games, but being a baker's son, Peeta never knew real hunger until he was reaped. He may have grown up on stale bread, but stale bread is infinitely better than no bread.

Facing the others is very difficult after what happened last night. Gale seems embarrassed and concerned, but doesn't talk about it. Haymitch is drunk already. My mother stares at the floor most of the time. Peeta's father seems somewhat protective, yet insecure, and his mother is cold and distant.

"If it isn't the star crossed lovers of District 12," Haymitch slurs as we sit down for breakfast. He's drunk already, or perhaps more accurately he's still drunk. "Now you are even real lovers! Wow, never thought that would happen, Peeta's always been too much of a good boy to make a move on badass Katniss, but now…"

"Shut the fuck up, Haymitch," I scream at him, throwing the contents of my glass of orange juice in his face. "Go sober up and leave us alone."

I think I want him to get angry, I want to pick a fight with him, it would help me **feel** something. But instead he just guffaws.

And he doesn't leave.

Without looking at anyone, I wolf down my breakfast and go back to our room, where I stay all day.

* * *

**_Love it? Hate it? Please review! I'm also still looking for ideas for the arena, I'm not quite sure what to do yet._**


	4. Chapter 4: Mr and Mrs Mellark

**Chapter four: Mr and Mrs Mellark**

When we come home to District 12, there's a new name plaque outside Peeta's door.

Peeta and Katniss Mellark.

I know this is courtesy of President Snow, because there's a rose etched in underneath our names. I don't comment on it, and neither does Peeta. I'm really not sure how I feel about changing my name - I've always been Katniss Everdeen. It's who I am.

Who is Katniss Mellark?

We hadn't discussed our living arrangements until now. Our houses in the Victor's Village are just across the street from each other, and up until now, we would sleep some nights at his place, some nights in my house. It seemed to work just fine, and I hadn't really given changing that arrangement any thought. I guess it makes more sense for us to live alone, though, in one house, without my mother and my sister, now that we're… married.

I still haven't gotten used to that word, and neither has, I think, Peeta.

It's not as if anyone asked us, anyway.

I just hope my mother and Prim can stay in the house that is officially mine, I hope they don't have to move back to the Seam.

Three days after we come home, a film crew comes knocking on our door. Caesar Flickerman has actually left the Capitol to go to District 12, and he's probably in for a shock, although he's too polite to show it. We are expected to take part in a post-wedding documentary where I have to gush over my dress, the food, the wedding in general and my never-ending devotion and gratitude to the Capitol and Snow in particular. Of course, we can't say no. Peeta seems to deal with it much better than I do – he plays with my hair, kisses my neck while I'm speaking and even calls me "honey". He's always been much more comfortable with the media than I have. I try my best, I really do, but it's hard to smile and play crazy in love when all I want to do is climb a tree, hide in the foliage and stay up there forever. I leave as much of the interview as I can to Peeta, I giggle like a brainless fool and touch his knee and his chest and just give them whatever they want when I'm asked a direct question. Which isn't that often, as Caesar knows all too well that Peeta gives much better interviews than I do.

I think my strategy works, I can't bring myself to look at the program when it's aired even though watching it is mandatory, but I think I did okay. At least I don't get any nasty letters or messages from Snow.

We try to get back to our usual routine. Peeta bakes, he spends quite a lot of time working in the family bakery. I know he doesn't have to, we have all the money we need, but I appreciate that he wants to help his family, although I don't know how he endures being bossed around by his mother all the time. I run along the electric fence, all around the district. Every day. My favorite bow, made by my father, is hidden in an oak on the outside of the fence. I long to go there, but know the forest is cut off from me forever. The electricity is on 24 hours a day – it is now something the Capitol prioritizes spending money on, it never did before – and I'm like a caged tiger. I have another bow, which is Capitol-made, but I still prefer the one my father made.

I try to stay busy. I help out Peeta in the kitchen sometimes, baking, but I usually end up ruining everything. Most of the time, I work on my fighting and survival skills. The latter is difficult, as there aren't that many forested areas inside the fence, but I do the best I can. I know the Hunger Games are coming up, and I will be expected to mentor the District 12 tributes. I owe it to them to do the very best I can. I also have to work, almost constantly, on avoiding to think about the presence of Prim's name in that bowl. What if she's chosen twice? It has never happened in the history of the Hunger Games. But what if it does now? What if her name is on every single slip of paper in that bowl, like Snow said?

I know that Snow can't be trusted. Yet I allowed myself to enter into some kind of agreement with him. An agreement which gives him the upper hand.

At night, we sleep in the same bed, as always. We don't have intercourse, nor do we talk about it. It's just us now. But how do we know when it feels right? Nothing between us has never been allowed to happen in its own time. We've always been forced together by someone on the outside. Now that we are, for once, left alone - if even just for a little while, with the 76th Hunger Games coming up - it seems like we don't really know what to do.

I know Peeta is scared of pressuring me, so he doesn't make a move. And I'm scared of myself, so I don't, either.

Then one night, I finally find the courage to ask him. "How do we know when it's the right time?" We lie together in bed, the breeze coming in through the open bedroom window.

He knows immediately what I'm talking about. "When it's the right time, you don't have to think about it. It just… happens. No second thoughts, no wondering if it's the right time."

"So when it's the right time, I won't be thinking about whether it's the right time?" He nods. "Sounds complicated."

"You know," he whispers in my ear. "We've been doing everything backwards."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when a boy and a girl, you know… Become a couple… They usually court a while before they start… Touching. And then they take it slow first, they don't have sex right away, they'll just touch… Get familiar with each other, learn about each other."

"Is that what your brothers say?" I can't help but tease him.

"That's what Rye says. Simon says it's easier to just skip the courting part and go straight to the fucking." I laugh, and Peeta blushes. "His choice of words, not mine," he assures me.

"I think I prefer Rye's version," I say.

"Me too." He hesitates. "Unfortunately, we ended up being forced to follow Simon's usual way of doing things. So I was thinking… What if we work our way back? We started in the wrong end."

"Are you suggesting we go to community dances?" This is where courting in District 12 usually takes place. The social ritual called "dating" in the Capitol isn't really something we do in District 12 – there was never any money for eating meals out, and no other entertainment to speak of. Community dances, informal events where someone plays the fiddle or perhaps sings if there are no instruments available, while everyone dances through the night, is where a lot of District 12 couples first meet. The dances are usually separate for residents in the town and residents in the seam, which cements the social divide further. But once a year, at midsummer, there is a big community dance for the whole District. I've never been to one, of course, not even the smaller seam dances, but I'm sure Peeta has been to plenty of community dances. He was always much more sociable than me, and less hungry.

"You, at a community dance? You'd rather chew your right arm off."

"You really do know me well, don't you?"

He chuckles, then kisses me lightly on the lips. "What I meant was that what if we… Skip the whole dancing part, obviously, but go to the getting to know each other bit? Physically, I mean. What if we… Just touch? No strings attached. Without it having to lead to anything at all. Why don't we just try to be a… normal teenage couple?"

He doesn't say "normal teenage couple in love", but I know that's what he **wants** to say.

"What do… normal teenagers do? I don't really know." I whisper. "Why don't you show me?"

"They do this," he says, and kisses me. The kiss is slow and deep, and I can feel the fire stirring in my belly. I must feel it, too, because he makes a grunting sound into my mouth as I reflexively move against him. My hands start to roam over his chest, somewhat hesitantly at first. "See? You do know how to be a normal teenager," he says. His voice is husky, his pupils dilated. I can feel his erection pressing into my belly already. I can't help but look down, and he follows my gaze. "It guess I'm a normal teenager, too," he says with a shy grin, and I smile back.

"Yeah."

And then we kiss. And touch. It is exciting and frustrating and surprisingly comforting, all at once. Every night, we explore each other's bodies, and these hours in bed together are what I long for all day, all I can think about when he's not with me. And when we are in the same room, it's all I can do to keep myself from tearing his clothes off. I don't really know what's happened to me, I'm a creature of fire.

We are keeping our underwear on in an unspoken agreement. I somehow feel safer when we aren't completely naked. It sounds ridiculous, even when I think about it, and I'm afraid to tell him. When I finally do, Peeta again surprises me by understanding exactly what I mean.

"It's because no one is controlling what we do," he whispers in my ear. "This is just about us."

And I realize he's right. Now I can **choose** not to remove the final pieces of clothing that separate us. It's not that I'm afraid of Peeta or his body being so close to mine anymore, but my panties and his boxers symbolize our choice. We do know, in the dark corners of our minds, that we are probably still being watched. We're not fools, we know our house is bugged. Even so, at least we're not under direct orders. We are as free as we can be, right here, right now.

Every night, we discover something new. I find out that Peeta has a spot on the inside of his thigh that makes him almost lose control. He discovers that I like it when he flickers his fingers on both of my nipples simultaneously. Peeta likes it when I lick his belly. I love being kissed on the neck, Peeta says it almost makes me purr like a kitten. I wonder if that's one of the things Finnick would've told him, if we'd given him the chance. Peeta's spine is incredibly sensitive, when I trail a finger down from his neck and until the elastics of his boxers at the small of his back, he will buck underneath me. When Peeta licks the skin on the inside of my thighs, even nibbling slightly, I have to muffle my screams with a pillow.

It seems to do us good. We don't bring each other to orgasm, but we do everything but. Even though we both walk around in a constant haze of unfulfilled sexual desire and frustration, or perhaps just because of it, the world around me seems clearer. It's crisper, more intense. The colors, the sunsets, the scents of flowers, the feel of grass underneath my bare feet. Even Haymitch remarks, amused, that I look like I need a good fuck, and even though I throw a bottle of liquor after him and yell at him that he's gross, I'm not really that angry.

I know he's seen the fire in my eyes. The fire that has been rewoken by Peeta's touch, the one that is now burning almost constantly.

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_**Thank you SO much for your reviews, favorites and for following this story! And a BIG thank you to everyone who's sending me suggestions for the HG arena, I think I might use a few of them, and incorporate a few of the other ideas as well. I really appreciate your input!**_

_**Oh, I'm on Tumblr as well - search for MockingJayFlyingFree and you'll find me. **_


	5. Chapter 5: Dark and dangerous

**Chapter five: Dark and dangerous**

Apparently grown-up, married couples invite their parents over for dinner on Sundays. My paternal grandparents died before I was born, my maternal grandparents didn't want to see us, and besides, my family hasn't been "normal" since I was a child, so this is something I haven't really tried before. But Peeta says this is normal, and so we invite our parents for dinner one Sunday. We invite Haymitch, too, as he seems to be more or less a parent to us as well. A dinner without him present just seems… wrong.

Peeta does the cooking, while my tasks are cleaning and finding wild flowers for the table. I'm not really good at either of those two jobs, so Prim helps me out. We actually have a surprisingly nice day together, considering the fact that I dread all sorts of family gatherings, and besides, the anticipation of me and my mother-in-law in the same room is enough to destroy the day alone.

Peeta, too, seems stressed. He's still helping his parents in the bakery on most days, but he often comes home angry, although he doesn't want to talk about it.

It only takes about ten minutes for me to be fully certain that this was, in fact, a horrible idea.

Rye, his wife and their one-year-old son are there, along with Simon and his girlfriend (or current fuck, as Peeta refers to her when no one's listening, which is degrading but in Simon's case unfortunately quite probably true). Little Mikey is the only person who prevents a complete meltdown at first – providing a welcome distraction and something to talk about and fuss over. But it quickly becomes apparent that a toddler is not enough so save this dinner.

Peeta's mother won't speak to neither my mother nor me. Prim seems to be marginally acceptable to her, but that's probably only because she looks like a merchant kid, and she's so pretty and kind and innocent that you can't help but like her. My mother, on the other hand, is a whole other story. Peeta's father barely dares to look at her, and I wonder what he's had to endure since Peeta and I became the star-crossed lovers. My mother was her husband's ex-girlfriend, not to mention the love of his life if the rumors I've heard are to be believed, plus she married below her social class. As if all that wasn't bad enough, my mother didn't keep her eldest daughter under control either, allowing me to sleep in Peeta's bed for a year before we were married. The fact that her middle son is screwing around in front of the whole district, and has been for years, is apparently not a problem – just thinking about her double standards makes me furious.

In addition to my unfortunate choice (or lack thereof) of parents, I am the very impersonation of everything she hates – scrawny, dirty Seam children. My gray eyes and my dark hair are a constant reminder of where I come from, and that her merchant son is now married to a Seam brat. Haymitch arrived reasonably sober, and we've threatened him to be careful with the liquor because we don't want him to be dead drunk around the toddler, but I can see that his right arm keeps twitching, he involuntarily reaches for a drink that's not there whenever there's another snarky remark coming across the table. Which is often.

Dinner is delicious, it always is when Peeta's cooking, but the tension is palpable. When Peeta's mother finally speaks to me, acknowledging that I do in fact exist, she only asks questions that she knows will embarrass me.

"What have you been up to lately, Katniss? We don't see you around in the bakery."

I tried being there a few days just after we returned from the Capitol, just to have something to do. I hate baking, though, and I couldn't stand being alternately bossed around and ridiculed, so I never returned. I mumble something about being very busy.

"Oh, but you're not hunting anymore, are you? The electricity is on 24 hours a day now, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," I answer, looking down at my plate.

"Just as well, it's not appropriate for married women to be out in the forest hunting, all alone. That's an activity which men are much better suited for."

"She's a much better archer than I could ever be, Mom," Peeta says.

"You were never any good at outdoor activities, anyway," his mother snaps, and he seems to shrink in front of me. I'm furious that she treats her son this way – kind, sweet Peeta. He's good at so many things, yet she keeps degrading him. He's never been good enough for her.

"Well, I'm not much good at cooking, so we complete each other, don't we, Peeta?" I say, trying to aim the fire at myself instead of him.

But things don't get completely out of hand until dessert, when Peeta's mother asks casually, as if asking me to pass the salt: "Are you pregnant yet, Katniss?"

I just stare at her, stunned at her rudeness.

«You should really conceive as soon as possible. Look at me, Rye was born nine months after our wedding. It would do you some good, and make you more womanly. You'd be too busy to do all the arching and fighting and all the other ridiculous things you waste your time on now."

The only one who hasn't frozen is little Mikey, who's happily smearing ice cream all over his face.

"That's none of your business, mother," Peeta finally says through clenched teeth, and it's one of the very few times I've heard him openly speak out against his mother.

I'm glad she didn't ask that question during dinner, when there were knives around, because if she had, I just might have been tempted to throw one of them in her general direction. Not to hit her, perhaps, but just to **nearly** hit her. As it is, my spoon isn't much of a weapon anyway. My eyes are burning with tears, but I won't show her just how much she hurt me. I just drop the spoon down on my plate and leave the table. As I reach the stairs, I start running, and quickly lock myself into our bedroom. I hide in our wardrobe, and enveloped in our clothes, in this small, confined space where no one can find me, my soft and protected cave, I finally start crying. It's been so long since I cried, I don't think I have since the train ride home from the Capitol.

I'm thoroughly unsuitable to be a wife, not to mention a mother. I can only imagine how horrible of a mother I'd be. And to think of our child… Being not only the child of two victors, but even two victors that Snow hates, any child of ours would certainly be reaped as soon as he or she was eligible. Snow has enough ammunition to use against me already, what with Prim and my mother being such easy targets. Having a child would just be giving Snow a loaded machine gun and ask him to aim at me.

I'm so grateful that my mother gave me the pills on the morning of my wedding day. The thought of me being pregnant now is just unbearable.

After a while, I'm surprised to hear that someone is outside the door of my wardrobe. I locked the door, didn't I?

"Go away, Peeta," I yell through the door.

"It's not Peeta, sweetheart."

"How did you get in here?"

"I picked the lock." It figures. Peeta would be way too polite to do anything like that, even if he had the skills, which I'm sure he doesn't. Haymitch, on the other hand, is like me. He refuses to be bound by any constraints.

Sulking, I get out of the wardrobe. Haymitch is sitting on the edge of our bed, drinking straight from the bottle.

"I told you to stay off the liquor when Mikey's in the house," I tell him.

"The kid has left, along with the witch, so now I have to work really hard on getting my blood alcohol level up to its usual standards," he says dryly.

"They're gone?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. Do me a favor, will you? Don't invite me to any of your family gatherings ever again."

"Trust me, there won't be any," I assure him, and he winks at me.

"Wise girl," he laughs.

* * *

We don't talk about the dinner with our parents afterwards. That we are never repeating this is something we don't even have to discuss.

That night, as we go to bed, there is something almost desperate about the way he touches me. He seems intent on making me writhe underneath his tongue and hands, and my body is thrashing uncontrollably in our bed under his touch. My core is throbbing, and the constant assault on my senses, without being allowed a release, is getting more and more frustrating by the day.

Yet he is angry. I can see it in his eyes. His anger at his mother and his sexual frustration are combined to create a darker and more dangerous Peeta.

And I like it.

He crawls up in bed to look me in the face, after spending an eternity kissing and licking the soft skin on the insides of my thighs. My panties are soaked, yet he refuses to touch them, or the skin underneath, although I know that he can surely both hear, see and smell my desire. He's panting. "I just want you to know that if it comes down to a choice between you and my mother, I'd choose you."

"Please don't think about or talk about your mother when you are doing those… things to me," I pant back, and he chuckles.

"Sorry. But I just had to tell you. I talked to her after you… left. I said to her that she's not welcome in our house until she apologizes to you and starts treating you with respect. And that's the end of the discussion."

"Peeta, stop talking." I just cannot think about my mother-in-law now, all I want is for him to touch me. With shaking hands, I take off my panties, and his breath catches. "Touch me. Right now. And if you talk about your mother when we're in bed together again, I swear I'll make you sleep on the couch for a week."

His eyes are burning when they meet mine. I half expect him to shed his boxers as well, but I'm somewhat relieved when he doesn't. Instead, one of his hands goes lower, stroking the skin of my belly first, then slipping between my legs. I part my thighs, eagerly welcoming his fingers. "I can smell you, how aroused you are," he groans, and when his fingers touch me it's evident to me just how wet I am. "You smell so good." Two of his fingers slip into me, and I buck underneath him as his thumb graces my clit. He brings his fingers, now glistening with my fluids, up to his mouth. "You taste good, too." He licks them clean, but leaves one finger for me to taste. I eagerly lick it free of my own juices, then suck on his finger, all the while keeping eye contact. He whimpers when I suck, and when I release it with an audible 'pop', he whispers: "Holy shit, Katniss," groaning, "you almost make me come just by sucking on my finger."

I can't help but grin.

And then he goes down on me. Finally, his tongue is back between my folds, where they have been only once before. He's alternating between licking and sucking and kissing on my clit while he inserts first one finger, then two, into me again, pumping slowly, then picking up speed as he grows more confident. Within minutes, I'm convulsing wildly around his hand. Just before I come, I distantly see that he's slipped his free hand into his boxer shorts, touching himself just for a few seconds before he comes loudly, and that's enough to send me spiraling into the most intense orgasm I've ever had. Not that I've had that many to compare to, there's just the one, but the experience still leaves me in shock.

Even through his own orgasm, Peeta keeps licking on me me, drinking up my fluids, guiding me through my climax and prolonging it. When I finally slump down in bed, spent, Peeta crawls back up to me. He kisses me, and I can taste myself on his lips and tongue. There is so much I want to tell him, but I can't find the right words, so I let my body do the talking. My hands are stroking his hair, holding him close. I kiss him lightly, like butterflies, all over his jaw, his face, his nose, his eyelids. There's a tired, but content smile on his lips.

His underwear is now wet and sticky, and after a while he excuses himself and goes to the bathroom to get cleaned up. When he returns, in a fresh pair of boxershorts, I curl up in his arms, still completely naked. His skin is warm and still sweaty underneath my fingertips. I breathe in the scent that's Peeta, and me, and the smells of our lovemaking combine to form a scent that is uniquely ours, intoxicating, filling the room.

We fall asleep, and I haven't slept this well since our first night together.

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**_Thanks for reviews, likes, favorites and ideas, everyone! This probably seems all sugary sweet at the moment, but I just have to give Katniss and Peeta a little break before the 76th Hunger Games... Will the odds be in their favor?_**


	6. Chapter 6: Returning the favor

_**107 followers! Wow, you take my breath away! Thank you so much! **_

_**And to celebrate 100+ follows, plus it's Saturday - here's another chapter! It's short (sorry), and there's no plot to speak of LOL, it's basically nothing but a lemon, and I hope you like it anyway. The story arc is going somewhere soon, I promise! It's just really important that they get to do some, er, "bonding" before the 76th Hunger Games. This is smut with a purpose(!), so I hope you'll be able to endure it. Well, I guess if you hated smut you wouldn't read my fics anyway LOL so enjoy! Have a nice weekend! And leave me a review if you like it, I appreciate them all so much. 3**_

* * *

**Chapter six: Returning the favor**

Us having to do this again is another thing we don't have to talk about, it's just a given. The next day, I'm just walking around with a silly grin on my face.

"I don't know what Peeta did to wipe that scowl off your face, sweetheart, but it must've been good," Haymitch tells me, when we meet up to work on our mentoring strategy for the 76th Hunger Games, but I have a very hard time concentrating.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I answer, trying to perfect my Ice Quenn look and pretend as if nothing's happened.

"Katniss…" He leans closer to me above the kitchen table. "… you didn't close your bedroom window last night. I live just across the street. I considered checking up on you just to make sure he wasn't killing you, but when you started screaming "Peeta, Peeta!" his imitation of me sounds embarrassingly true to life, and I blush "I just took the chance on it not being a capital offense."

Ouch.

So the next evening, I make it a point to close the window.

When I turn around, looking at Peeta, he cocks an eyebrow questioningly. "We got a complaint regarding our… activities last night. From Haymitch."

"Were we…. Loud?"

"Not we… Apparently **I **was loud."

He's laughing now. "Well, you were."

I know I'm blushing, but his laugh is contagious. "I was, wasn't I?" He nods. I whisper in his ear, in a voice I hope is seductive: "I just want to keep doing… that thing we were doing. Every night."

And we do. It's infinitely more satisfying now that we bring each other to climax. Peeta has in effect denied us both to orgasm until now, but thankfully this has changed. He seems intent on making me come, again and again and again. I revel in his touch, but I do everything I can to return the favor. It takes a few days until he allows me to take off his boxers, but soon we are both naked in bed together. He doesn't enter me – it's another thing we don't have to talk about, we just have a silent agreement that it's too soon. Instead, we explore all the other ways we can be together. One night, I try something I only heard some girls whisper about at school, a long time ago. I wasn't meant to overhear that conversation – and at the time I thought it sounded absolutely revolting, something only whores would do.

But he's done it for me, and I've loved it.

So the first time I take his cock in my mouth, I'm somewhat apprehensive. I have no idea what I'm doing here. But the moan I get from him, and the way his body automatically rises from the bed sheets to meet my mouth, begging me to take him deeper - tell me that my instincts were right.

Doing this was definitely a good idea.

"Shit, Katniss," he groans. "You don't really have to do that unless you want…" I flicker my tongue on the underside of the head, and his sentence just ends in a moan, coming from the very depth of his stomach. He's staring at me with his eyes wide open, his tongue is literally hanging out, he's in shock. Pleased with my achievements so far, I experiment with my tongue, exploring him, then taking him a bit deeper. I reflexively gag, and realize I have to be careful, hoping he won't thrust into my mouth.

I sit back on my knees for a second, between his legs, looking up on him. When my mouth releases his cock, he throws his head back, groaning, his body twisting, his hands are tugging at his hair. "Do you like it?" I ask him, and I'm surprised by how husky my voice sounds.

He seems unable to answer, so he just nods eagerly. He looks unsure, I guess he doesn't know if I want to continue or not, and his eyes widen when I take him in my mouth again. This time I'm more confident, stroking the shaft with my hands and sucking together, trying to create a rhythm. I testingly play with his testicles with one hand, stroking the skin of his scrotum, which feels so different from the skin on the rest of his body. It looks like he has a hard time keeping his eyes open, but still he seems intent on watching me. "You with my cock in your mouth is…" I suck a little bit harder, and he is again dissolved into a series of moans, unable to complete his sentence.

"… a dream come true?" I whisper, when I pause for just a few seconds, resting my jaws which are by now starting to ache.

"You have no idea. **Please** don't stop."

And I don't. Pretty soon, I can feel him twitching in my mouth, and I know he's close. "Katniss, I'm… about to…" I know he's trying to warn me, but I want this. I want him. I want to try. With a few more strokes he comes in my mouth, violently, I've never heard him scream this loudly before. At least not in pleasure. His seed splurts onto the back of my tongue and into throat, and for a split second I'm torn between spitting it out and swallowing, I didn't plan this far ahead when I decided to try this, but I land on swallowing. It can't say I like the taste, but tearing these sounds from Peeta, watching him looking at me like I'm the most amazingly sexy person he's ever seen while I have his cock in my mouth, is worth it all. I lick him clean as his twisting and moaning die down. His hands are clutching the sheets, the bed is in turmoil. I move up to him, kissing him. He eagerly kisses me back, I know he's tasting himself on my tongue and lips, and I can tell from his groans that this is something he loves.

After, when his voice returns, he whispers: "That was… the most amazing thing I've ever…" His flushed face and hazy eyes make me feel…

Happy.

It's not a sensation I'm used to. Happiness has rarely been a part of my life, and when it has been present, it has only been so for short periods of time.

"Any time, Peeta. Any time." I whisper back.


	7. Chapter 7: Alive by the river

**Chapter seven: Alive by the river**

Haymitch and I intensify our preparations for the Hunger Games. With the reaping coming up in just a few weeks, the pressure is mounting. Peeta has offered to help, too, but talking about and thinking about the Games is just so hard for him, it breaks him down to such a degree that we try to spare him as much as possible. He attends a few meetings on media and sponsor strategies together with Effie, but otherwise we lie to him and tell him that everything is under control, it's better if he just bakes. I know that baking is like therapy for him. He bakes partly for his parents' bakery – even though he's not speaking to his mother – but he also gives away quite a lot of bread for free, in secret so as not to ruin his parents' business. The orphanage and the poorest of the poor families in the Seam get regular visits from the boy with the bread.

Haymitch and I have tried to work out a strategy, but until we know who the tributes are, it's hard to make any final decisions. We both know it's more than likely futile anyway, but I refuse to give up. "Look at us," I tell him. You mentored children for, what, 24 years before we came along? What if you had given up?"

"Well, I **had** given up," he tells me.

I roll my eyes. "You still tried to help us. You **saved** us, Haymitch, we couldn't have survive alone. Perhaps we can make the same difference for some poor District 12 kid this year, too?" I cannot think about the two District 12 children that were butchered on our watch last year. I cannot.

"Well, you two were something quite out of the ordinary. I could sell your love shit to the sponsors, and I could put pressure the gamemakers because Panem fell completely for the whole charade. Plus you look hot, Peeta's pretty good-looking too, the boy was convincingly in love, and you're an accomplished hunter and stubborn as hell. How likely do you think it is that we'll get another complete package like that ever again? It happens perhaps once in a lifetime, and that's if we're lucky."

I scowl. "We're not giving up until we hear those cannonshots in the sky, do you hear me?"

He sighs.

So I'll be responsible for the fighting and survival training. Haymitch deals with the sponsors. And Peeta – his job will be to map the opposition - and keep the poor children's spirits up.

Peeta clearly has the worst job.

Cinna comes to District 12 to try on some of the clothes he's made for us. We'll be expected to attend a number of official events, and we have to look spectacular. In truth, it's mainly I that have to look spectacular – Peeta's clothes are usually just matching mine, clearly made after my dress was designed. Even Haymitch is fitted with clothes with details which accentuate my dresses, and he huffs and complains that it looks like we're some freaky trio doing threesomes. I roll my eyes and tell him to shut up, but he does have a point.

When Peeta and I are finally alone at night, there is a desperation to our touch now that wasn't there before. We know we'll be going back to the Capitol soon. We know we'll be forced to watch 23 children die for the sake of entertainment. We don't know what plans Snow might have for us. The safety of District 12 isn't real, it's just an illusion that we cling to, yet it's a pleasant one. It feels all too easy when the Capitol is far away – but reaping day is growing closer.

Prim's name will be in there three times. At least I sincerely hope it will only be in there three times. But even if Snow does keep his word – when her name was drawn the first time, her name was only in there once. Still she was picked. Surely she can't be this unlucky again?

It's not as if my family has ever been known for its luck.

Devouring each other's bodies helps us feel… alive. But we don't cross the final line, there is no penetration, save from his fingers and tongue. He knows everything there is to know about my body now, but this final thing – what it feels like to bury himself inside me when I **want** it, when I desperately **need** it - this we can't make ourselves do. In the current context of death and destruction, it just seems… wrong. We get our releases in other ways, which we never get tired of.

I'm surprised by my own sexual appetite. For a long time, I considered myself frigid. Cold. I just never imagined I'd share this with anyone. I never felt any need to. Allowing anyone to get that close to me was something I never really considered. I couldn't afford the luxury of trusting anyone, of needing anyone.

It turns out that what I needed was Peeta. He discovered this fire in me, the one that was so well hidden, the fire that now burns ferociously. His skin, tongue, lips and hands make me feel… sane.

The reaping is in six days.

I was supposed to meet Haymitch for some strategy planning, but when I come to his house, it turns out he's unconscious. Again. The closer the reaping gets, the more he drinks. I know him now, I know he's numbing the pain with liquor. Anaesthetizing himself. It's self-medication of a different kind, he's just not using morphling. Alcohol has always been the preferred mode of escape in District 12, unlike in a few other districts. He's a seam boy at heart, and he uses the seam way of escaping the hell that is the reality of his life.

I make sure he's breathing normally and that his airways are clear, then I hide the half-empty bottles in another room – he'll find them eventually, but hopefully not right away. His liver can take a lot, it's endured much beating over the years, but even Haymitch has limits.

I go back home, and find Peeta baking in the kitchen, as usual. Haymitch is upping his drinking – and Peeta is baking like there is no tomorrow these days. Which, for two District 12 children, will most likely be the case for real. Very soon.

There is flour everywhere. There is something almost desperate about how he's working on the dough. He doesn't see me at first, he's so preoccupied with his baking. His forehead is sweaty, the muscles of his strong arms are bulging.

This has to stop. All of it. The drinking. The baking.

"Peeta?" He doesn't hear me at first. "Peeta!" He finally looks up. "Stop it."

"What?" He's confused.

"Stop baking. Please. Come with me. Just… take the day off for once. You gave the orphanage so much bread yesterday, I'm sure they'll have enough for today, too. It's a beautiful day. Let's just spend the day together outside?" He still looks a bit unsure, so I say something which usually wins him over: "Please? Do it for me?" I know he can't resist that.

And soon enough, we're off. Peeta wants to go take a shower first, but I tell him no. "I know a place where we can go swimming in the river."

"But I can't swim," he says hesitatingly. Most people in District 12 can't, I'd almost forgotten.

"It doesn't matter, it's so shallow you can just wade, you don't have to swim."

We can't go where I really want to go – the lake my father used to take me to, where I learned to swim so many years ago – but there is a nice spot by the river that's running through the district, upstream from the seam. It's secluded, and not many people go there, as so few here can swim. Besides, it's a school day, and all the adults are working, so we'll most likely be alone. Only victors have the luxury of choosing how they want to spend a Monday.

I do manage to cheer him up, and it feels great to just… be together. I'm even able to shut the reaping out of my head, if just for a little while. As soon as I see the stream, and see that we're alone here, all alone among the tall trees and the sun and the slow flow of the river, I do a little dance of joy. Peeta laughs when he sees it, he says it's so unlike me. We are upstream of the mines – downstream, the water is full of chemicals and residues. Nothing can live there, and no one would ever dream of bathing in it. But up here, the water is crystal clear and fresh and cool. I rip my clothes off and run into the river, laughing and splashing the water around me. I can't even remember the last time I had this much fun. Peeta looks more hesitant, but wades into the water to join me. He doesn't take his prosthetic off, which is probably a good thing - because he can't swim, getting into the water would've been difficult on just one leg.

And there, in the sun, it finally feels right.

Peeta was correct. When it's the right time, I won't think about whether or not it is the right time.

It just is.

He's waded into the water now, it's reaching him mid-chest. I'm swimming around him, teasing him, yet he still manages to catch me. The truth is I allow him to catch me. The cool water surrounds our bodies, we are in our own little world of water and leaves and sun and pebbles. I'm held tightly in his strong arms, and I pretend to fight really hard to get away, giggling and getting my mouth and nose full of water. My body is strong and fit, but his is larger and more muscular. He's caught me, and now he's holding me tight, pressing my body into his, bending my head backwards and kissing me hungrily. I meet his kiss eagerly, reveling in the contrast between the cool water against my body, his hard chest against my soft breasts and his tongue and lips, which feel scorching hot.

Before I know what's really happening, we're on the bank of the river, rolling over our discarded clothes which are getting wet and full of sand, but we don't even notice it.

This time, there is no need to ask for permission, to ask if anything is okay. It just is, **everything** is okay, and we both know it. My fire burns for him, it burns only for Peeta. It's not slow and loving and hesitant this time. Here, by the river, it's passionate and hard and nearly desperate. I can't wait for him to enter me, I don't want foreplay, I just want him inside me to complete me. My body isn't quite ready when he does push into me, it's all happening so fast, but I'm still wet enough for him to slide inside relatively easily, even if it's initially slightly uncomfortable. His fingers have opened up my body more since our wedding night, made me used to having him inside, even if wasn't his cock. I clutch at him desperately, wanting him closer, further inside, deep in my core. I want us to melt together, to never let go, to live in this moment forever.

All that we are is skin touching skin. Wet slapping sounds as our bodies, still moist from the river, ram into each other. His groaning and panting in my ear, and my own panting and half-muffled cries, as if far away. His mouth devouring my neck. My scream as I suddenly and violently climax. His teeth biting down on my shoulder as he follows me a few seconds later. His erratic, impossibly deep thrusts as he empties his seed inside me.

And as he collapses on top of me, his cock still twitching inside me, he whispers, again and again into my ear: "I love you, Katniss, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…" It sounds almost like a prayer. I think he's crying.

I'm crying, too. "I love you too," I whisper back.

And saying it just feels… right. Safe. Saying that I love him wasn't hard at all.

It is natural. Like breathing.

I've lived my whole life just waiting for this moment by the river.


	8. Chapter 8: The reaping

**Chapter eight: The reaping**

It's reaping day.

I've been dreading this day for the last 364 days. Ever since Prim's name wasn't drawn from the glass bowl last year.

Her name is Primrose Everdeen. She's 14 years old, and she's from District 12. She is my sister. Her name is in the bowl three times.

The odds should be in her favor. But they weren't before. And Snow has the power to make sure the odds will be very much against her.

As soon as I wake up and remember which day it is, I have to run to the bathroom to throw up. I didn't get much sleep last night – neither of us did. At some point in the hours of early morning I guess we both drifted off, to a land in between night and day, in between being awake and being asleep, the place where nightmares lurk and will never let you go.

As I come out of the bathroom, still queasy, Peeta looks worriedly at me. "You're not…" his voice trails off initially, then he takes a deep breath and completes his question, "… pregnant?"

I sincerely hope not. I take the pills religiously, every Saturday evening. I have ever since that first night, just in case, even though we didn't have actual intercourse again until earlier this week. Today is Pill Day, and I will most certainly remember to take it. The glass of pills is hidden in the bag I've packed for the train ride later today, but I've got some in my purse as well.

Just in case. Just because you never know.

I can't thank my mother enough for giving them to me. Bringing a child into the mess that is my life… It's just unthinkable. It must never happen.

I shake my head. "Don't worry about it," I tell him. "Our… wedding night was two months ago, I'd have known earlier if I'd conceived then. And… What we did by the river – and afterwards –" I can't help myself, there's a smile on my lips now – "it would be too soon to experience any symptoms now, anyway." I can't tell him about the pills. Talking about them would be acknowledging that they exist. It would be giving Snow the opportunity to learn about them. My mother wasn't supposed to have access to them – she's a District 12 healer, and she doesn't have access to fancy Capitol drugs which are prescribed by doctors.

The drugs that work.

Instead, she usually has to work with whatever she has. Herbs, traditional medicine. Soothing words, a comforting hand, being someone who listens. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. I often think that her taking **care** of her patients is what really helps them in the end, not the herbs themselves. But even her compassion never works true magic, like I've seen the Capitol medicines do. How she got her hands on that glass of pills is a mystery, and I don't want to think about how much it must've cost her.

"Oh." He blushes. "I don't really know how… it works. I mean, with the symptoms of pregnancy and…" I realize this is something we should've talked about, now that we've breached that last barrier between us again. "Every time that we are together, I worry that… this is the time when it will happen." He's tried to ejaculate outside of me, but I won't let him. I want him to come inside me, to fill me up with his seed, and I can't tell him why it's safe. My behavior must seem very confusing to him – on the one hand I'm very clear that I don't want children, on the other I don't let him do the one thing he can do to avoid getting me pregnant.

"Don't worry about it," I repeat, and I hope that he'll somehow understand what I mean. That we are safe, at least for now, even though he doesn't know it.

* * *

I've been through this once before now, so the day of the reaping is not as much of a shock to me as it was last year. There is the obligatory tedious prepping. My prep team, Effie, Cinna, Portia – they're all here. Apparently I get to keep my team, as Peeta and I are so high-profile, and Cinna will still work partly on my dresses, in addition to the new tributes. I'm too important to have a mediocre designer.

Cinna has designed a dress for me, just for today – it is beautiful in its simplicity. It is **pure**, in a slate gray matching my eyes. It is somber, there is nothing festive about it. Peeta has a maching gray suit. Haymitch refuses to wear what Cinna made for him, he's dug up an old suit from his wardrobe instead, muttering that no one cared what he wore for the reapings until Peeta and I showed up. The suit is wrinkly, and Effie complains that it's soooo out of fashion. He's drinking already.

We have to go over all the details of the ceremony together with Effie. Where the children in the various age groups are standing. The excitement of the new introductory film they've made this year, and how much she loves it. I sometimes wonder just how Effie does it. She has a heart – a good one, even. Yet she looks at this spectacle not as the murder of 23 children every year for the sake of entertainment, but as a **show**.

And through it all, all I can think of is Prim. I even see the suitcases containing the paperslips – one for girls and one for boys. They are both being guarded by peacekeepers from the Capitol, and only Effie has the key. She is not allowed to get near the suitcases until she's up on stage.

Is Prim's name on all the paperslips in the girls' suitcase?

I don't get to meet Prim, there is no time. Last year, we lived in the same house, and I had to watch her get dressed in her most beautiful dress. Watch my mother comb and braid her hair. Knowing it might be the last time she would be in this house.

I'm glad I don't have to see that this year.

We're in the Hall of Justice, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Even Haymitch is nervous. We know that outside, the children are being herded like sheep into their pens, their DNA checked and cross-matched against the Capitol lists. It is imperative that everyone is there. The repercussions if your child in reaping age is not present are extremely severe.

Haymitch sits down next to me, closer than usual. No one's paying any attention to us. He's slurring, talking about geese and drinks and the Hunger Games. He leans in closer, and takes my hand. My first reaction is to slap him, but there's a warning in his eyes. And then I smell it - or more accurately, the lack of it. He doesn't smell of liquor.

He's not really drunk.

Why is he pretending to be drunk? Then I feel something in my hand, he closes my fingers around it.

A slip of paper.

I begin to open my fist to look at it, but he shakes his head ever so slightly. I nod almost imperceptibly.

A few minutes later I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. Is it bugged? Certainly. Are there cameras in here?

Probably not.

But I still can't take the chance that there aren't. I bend down, pretending that there's something wrong with my shoe. Quickly, I open the note, knowing my skirt and my body will shield it from view if there are indeed cameras in here. It's handwritten in Haymitch's sloppy hand.

"Read this quickly, then immediately put it in your mouth. There are rumors of a rebellion against the Capitol in several of the districts. You are the symbol of the uprising – you are the Mockingjay. Snow will be trying to control you, now more than ever. As long as you are under his control, he can use you against them. You need to be very careful in the Capitol. Keep your eyes open. Several victors know, but not everyone can be trusted. Watch your back."

Bending even further down, I discreetly slip the paper inside my mouth, and as he said – it dissolves upon making contact with my saliva, leaving me with a foreign, metallic taste in my mouth.

I must pretend as if nothing's happened. I pee, wash my hands, and go back to the others. I don't look at Haymitch, but I can feel that he's watching me.

Effie enters the room. "It's showtime!" she's shrieking in her falsetto voice, and my heart sinks. Automatically, I find Peeta's hand. We know what's waiting for us.

The sea of eyes. Mostly gray, some blue, some brown. The silence is eerie. Everyone's just looking at us. Everyone is hoping for someone else's misfortune.

Someone else's sister, son, grandchild.

Not **my** daughter, not **my** brother, or best friend, or girlfriend.

Please, anyone, just not **me**.

I take a deep breath, looking out over the crowd. Even the wind is holding its breath, it seems. Peeta, Haymitch, Effie and I are up there on stage. I know I should try to smile and be cheery and excited, but I just can't bring myself to do it. All I can focus on, are those eyes, all staring at us – and the two suitcases with the paper slips in them. Two empty glass bowls are already standing on two small tables. Four peacekeeers are guarding them, each suitcase is actually handcuffed to the wrist of a peacekeeper. Effie comes with the key, opens the suitcases, and the paperslips are poured into the glass bowls. Effie makes meticulously sure that no paper slips are left in the suitcases, that all the eligible names are in the bowl. No one must be missed. No one must be spared.

I'm shaking now. I know that there are hundreds of boys who are waiting in terror, too, but all I can see is the glass bowl containing the girls' names. Peeta puts his hand around me, pulling me closer.

He's so lucky to be the youngest. He doesn't have any siblings of reaping age.

But I know he loves Prim. Everyone loves Prim. She is almost like a little sister to him.

I miss Effie's first words. She's dressed in an outrageous orange dress – it's supposed to symbolize fire, I suppose, here in the coal mining district, with the girl on fire on stage behind her - but she should've gotten Cinna instead of her own usual designer. It's just too much for District 12.

Then the film begins. I try to concentrate, but everything is just a fog around me – I hear Snow's voice ringing in my head, and it's as if he's talking directly to me. About the war, so long ago. About the generosity of the Capitol, allowing the traitors in the districts to live. About 13, which was obliterated. About the sacrifice that the districts make every year, giving up two of their young, one boy and one girl, to fight to the death in the arena. The nobility, the honor of being a victor. How the Hunger Games bind us together. "This is how we safeguard our future."

The future of 24 children is very far from being safeguarded.

And then Effie says the dreaded words: "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

As usual, it's ladies first.

Her long, perfectly manicured fingers search in the bowl. She goes back and forth – picks up a slip of paper, then discards it and picks another one.

I hold my breath. I think everyone in the square does.

Finally, she makes her final decision. She opens it, clearly reading the name to herself first before saying it out loud. I can't see her face, so I can't see if she's had a reaction to a name that's familiar to her or not, the only name that is familiar to her. She pauses.

"Emilia Witheart."

The only thing that's holding me on my feet at that moment, is Peeta's strong hand around my waist. A surge of relief flows through me. Prim! She's safe!

And then I see her. Emilia. She's coming from the pen containing the 13-year-old girls.

She's only 13. She's very small for her age, her legs stick thin. Her body is that of a little girl's, her breasts aren't even budding underneath her blue dress, her hips narrow like a boy's. She has dark hair and seam gray eyes, and I know she's been starving all her life.

In the back, someone is screaming, and I know it must be her mother. No one will volunteer for little Emilia. As soon as I see her, I know she doesn't stand a chance. Tears burn in my eyes, but I can't let them fall. I know I'll have to be strong for this little girl, I have to give her hope, to mentor her, even though I know she will be murdered.

Then it's time for the boys.

"Den Harris."

He, too, must be from the seam. He comes from the 17-year-old pen. He has the ragged look of someone who's seen it all, experienced too much, despite his young age. "He's from the orphanage," Peeta murmurs, and at first I'm surprised. He's almost a man, why is he staying there? But then I remember – he can't be working in the mines until he's 18. So until he can make a living of his own, however meager, he has to stay in the orphanage.

No one's crying out his name from the back. Everyone is silent.

As Den walks up on stage to stand next to little Emilia, everyone holds out the three middle fingers of their right hand.

Reflexively, I do the same. Afterwards, I wonder if the cameras captured it.

Two hours later, we are back on the train to the Capitol. I remember the first time we were in here – I thought I'd never see District 12 again. The luxury, the food – the cruelty of it all.

I know the preparations must begin immediately. We don't have a lot of time, just two short weeks until Emilia and Den will be out in the arena.

Peeta already knows Den a little bit, apparently Den is very helpful with the young children in the orphanage. He seems to be protective of Emilia, I guess the orphanage is full of little girls like her – thin, dark-haired and starving. Peeta's mother would call them both seam brats. I see myself in them – in the way their eyes just can't leave the food in front of them. In the way they guard their plates while they eat, far too quickly. In their distrust. In the way their gray eyes are just staring, as if they are waiting to be rejected.

We ask them if they have any particular talents? Den is strong, he's been helping the village smith in exchange for some food now and then. He's good with the axe, he's chopped a lot of wood in his short life. He seems reasonably smart, too. I make a mental note that he's not the worst District 12 tribute I've seen by far, perhaps we can work with him.

Emilia is another story. She's just terrified, and it's so hard to make her open up. Does she have any talents? Peeta finally manages to win her trust.

She's good at writing poetry.

I don't know whether to laugh or to cry. She won't be going into the arena with a pen, that's for sure. The careers will eat Emilia for breakfast.

It also turns out she knows a lot about plants. Now, that is something that can potentially be more useful, at least if the arena isa forested area, a habitat similar to District 12. This means she is less likely to starve than many of the others, aside from the careers, because with her size, she's unlikely to make it out of the fight at the Cornucopia with anything but her life – and that's if she's lucky. She'll have to find food in the arena to survive. She's small, so she doesn't need that much food to stay alive, either. That's about the best thing I can say about her.

"They are going to be butchered," I say to Peeta as we lie in bed that night. "Emilia doesn't stand a chance. And Den… I just don't think he has what it takes."

"You mean he's not cruel and cunning and murderous?"

"Well… yeah."

"Neither were we. But we still made it out of the arena alive, didn't we?"

"I can be cruel and cunning and murderous if I want to," I object.

"But it's not as if those are your primary qualities, Katniss. And the love interest angle has been done before, so we can't play that card again. Besides, Emilia is much too young for him, no one would believe it." Peeta pauses, thinking. "What if she's like Johanna?"

I consider that possibility. Johanna Mason pretended to be totally helpless, and she played her part so convincingly that no one bothered to try to kill her. When there were only a few tributes left, she showed her true colors. She turned out to be a vicious killing machine, after the others had done the dirty work killing off each other, many of them getting injured in the process so they were easy pray. She finished them off, one by one. Throwing her axe in the back of their heads was her specialty. "But we can't **make** her into a new Johanna," I object. "Can you picture Emilia throwing an axe at anyone? She probably can't even lift one."

He has to admit that he can't.

As the train brings us closer to the Capitol, I know it's hopeless. There is nothing we can do to save them. How could Haymitch survive, doing this for so long? Seeing them all die. This is only my second year, and already I feel like drinking.

And then there's the note. A rebellion. Me being the Mockingjay. Some victors know something… Clearly Haymitch does. And from what happened after our wedding, I'm guessing Johanna and Finnick know something, too. At least they knew enough to tell us to be careful.

I am to keep my eyes open. For what? And how do I tell Peeta?

I hardly get any sleep that night. All I can think about, is that the train is swiftly bringing us closer to the Capitol through the darkness. The only consolation I can find is that Prim is safely in her bed in District 12.

* * *

_**Thank you for your reviews, favorites and follows, everyone! Some of you will see your arena suggestions being incorporated in the story quite soon.**_

_**Also... I'm almost at 100 reviews, yay! Perhaps we'll reach the magic limit with this chapter - if you review and tell me what you think? Did you think Prim was going to be reaped? And what do you think will happen to the two unfortunate tributes from District 12? Let me know! Reviews make my day!**_


	9. Chapter 9: Strengths and weaknesses

**Chapter nine: Strengths and weaknesses**

It is strange how different things are this year compared to last year. That's both good and bad. On the positive side, I know how everything works now. I know what's expected of me as a mentor, what I have to do, and I know the other victors.

On the other hand – I know how everything works. I know what's expected of me as a mentor, what I have to do. And just thinking about it makes me feel sick.

And I thought I knew the other victors, but that was before I read Haymitch's note. When I look at them now, all I can think about is: What do you know?

I realize that my initial doubts about our tributes were unfortunately not unfounded. Realistically, I have to admit to myself that we have a huge problem. Den is strong, but sometimes it feels like he's not interested in even trying, it's almost like he's given up already. He reminds me of myself in some ways – I might've felt the same way about the 74th Hunger games too, if it hadn't been for Prim and my promise to return to her. Den doesn't have anyone to return to.

He has nothing.

And other times, I see another side of him that I'm not sure if I like - he makes hasty decisions. In the Hunger Games, you do have to make decisions very quickly to survive, but if those decisions are also rash, too risky and too daring, you are likely to end up dead sooner rather than later. Will he follow our instructions? I'm not so sure. I know I didn't.

And Emilia, well… she's cute in that starved Seam girl way of hers, and she does have a sense of humor on the rare occasion when she opens up somewhat. She's also tiny and shy, and I don't think she'd be capable of hurting a fly. The one person she reminds me of, is unfortunately Annie Cresta. Annie, who is the most unlikely victor of them all. She only survived because the entire arena was flooded, and the rest of the tributes drowned. She's from District four, so she's a good swimmer, having been around water all her life. She became a victor because of her swimming skills only – which turned out to be a huge disaster, as TV entertainment goes, and apparently the head gamemaker that year was executed. Who wants to see all the tributes drown, turning the Hunger Games into a teenage swimming contest? Only without the sexy swimsuits? Watching someone drown isn't fun or entertaining or exciting. There is very little screaming or anything interesting (for a viewer of the Hunger Games, at least) involved – in the end, it's even very hard to see that they're about to die if you don't know which signs to look for. They just go under, very quietly, and that's the end of it. Annie went mad afterwards, they weren't even able to do a victor interview. She's mentoring, though, every year, but I don't know if she does any real work.

But as the game makers are very unlikely to make Emilia into a repeat Annie Cresta, because I'm guessing they are probably quite attached to their heads, we have a problem. I just can't see how she could possibly survive this. Even Peeta agrees – he's gone over the files on the other tributes, watching the videos from the reapings in the various districts, over and over.

We just don't have a lot to work with.

Haymitch knows too, of course. These are the kind of tributes he's had for the last 26 or so years, excluding me and a few others in the past, none of whom were lucky enough to get out of the arena with a pulse, aside from Peeta and myself.

* * *

As much as I hate the Hunger Games, it is actually nice to meet the other victors again. I wouldn't call any of them friends, but we do have something in common that no one else will ever understand. There is a bond there which is hard to explain. Even many of the career victors, who were trained to kill from a very young age, can be quite entertaining – when they are not talking about murder, that is. Some of the victors I even like, lik Mags. She's very old, and I think she might have had a stroke, because it's very difficult to understand what she's saying, but she is… nice. Kind. She is like a grandmother to many of the victors, and Finnick adores her. Johanna isn't naked quite as often this year as she was last year. There's always something happening around Johanna – Peeta really likes her, and even if I accuse him of only liking her because he hopes she'll take her clothes off, I know it's not true. She's just so sure of who she is, she doesn't give a damn.

Haymitch says it's because she has no one left to lose.

Then there is Finnick, of course. I'd usually try to keep him at an arm's length, because he' s just a bit too **much** - he just radiates too much sensuality, it's like he's constantly enveloping me in it, it's unnerving. I strongly suspect he's doing it on purpose in my case, and I never know where I have him. I feel like he's playing with me, teasing me, even though it's not as bad now as it was before, given that my "pure" status has obviously changed. But now, knowing he probably knows something about the rebellion, I try to spend time with him whenever I can. Finnick, on the other hand, is spending a lot of time with Annie Cresta. Frail, beautiful, pale Annie Cresta. Which means I'm also spending time with Annie.

"Our tributes this year suck," Finnick complains one night at the bar. I'd have gone to bed a long time ago if it hadn't been for that note, I'm not really into socializing. But perhaps if I hang around Finnick, I'll get any clues as to what's going on.

"They do suck ass," Johanna agrees. I'm very surprised that the District four tributes are this bad, considering it's a career district, although not to the same extent as District one and two. Both the tributes that were reaped this year are very young - the girl is 12, the boy 13. I remember watching a rerun of the reaping - there are usually volunteers in District four, as quite a few teenagers go to the district's special training academy to prepare for the Hunger Games. But this year, no one volunteered. Why? District four having two tributes with terrible odds is almost unheard of.

Johanna studies the tequila in her glass intently, then gulps it down like a man. "Mine are worse, though."

"Well, they are at about the same level as ours," I sigh. Peeta gives me a quick kick in my shin. "Sorry, Peeta, but it's true," I tell him. "Have you seen the tributes from District one this year? Knife-girl and what's-his-name?"

"Kora and Twitch," Peeta says. He's looking over at Haymitch, who has passed out on the floor. He motions to two Avoxes, and they immediately come and carry Haymitch off to bed.

"Yeah, Kora and Twitch. I wouldn't be surprised at all if Kora gets a 12, I mean, I've never seen anyone throw knives the way she does. She's a killing machine."

"If she gets a 12, she'll be an instant target," Johanna objects.

"It doesn't matter if she's a career," Finnick says.

"And Twitch is so big I'm sure they've given him something to build muscle mass, you know, drugs," I continue.

"Which would explain that vicous temper of his," Peeta remarks.

There is an uncomfortable silence around the table. Annie is looking even paler than usual. Peeta's looking down into his glass, and I just want to scream, thinking about how my tributes are going to be butchered in that arena, just a few days from now.

"So I tried to order fish for dinner last night, and I was told the weather in District four was so bad, there wasn't any fish to be had," Peeta says, and I don't know what that's all about, but at least talking about fish is better than talking about children being murdered. "The waiter said they hadn't had any fish for two weeks? The weather must be really bad out there by the coast."

There is something in his voice, just a subtle undertone.

"Yeah, uh… it was really terrible. I mean, except on reaping day, obviously, you saw it on TV. It was a freak sunny day, but the rest of the time the weather has been so stormy, the fishing boats haven't been able to go out," Annie says.

"That's odd, at this time of the year, isn't it?" Peeta remarks.

"Oh well... freaky weather, you know how it goes," Finnick says, but I notice that he carefully avoids looking at me.

Open your eyes, Katniss. Peeta is learning to play the game, but you...

Something is happening in District four. Something huge, something Snow doesn't want anyone to know about - not the Capitol citizens, and not the other districts, either. A rebellion? If there's a rebellion in district four, surely Finnick and Annie must know about it. It would be kind of hard to miss if they are living in the district. Finnick usually spends quite a large portion of the year in the Capitol, but I heard someone mentioning earlier today that he's spent a lot more time at home this year than he usually does.

I decide that it's time to open my eyes - and in the following days, I do. There is no open talk of a rebellion in the district, but now that I know what to look out for, there certainly are clues. Such as Cinna complaining that he can't get the fabric of his choice for the dress he's making for Emilia's interview. So something is happening in District eight, shutting the fabric factories down. Or perhaps District 11, as the fabric in question was a cotton blend? There is a short power cut at one point, which brings on panic in the Capitol residents, and it makes me wonder if something is happening in District five as well.

What is the best way of assuring that the districts don't rebel? Cut them off from each other. No one is allowed to travel except on official business. There are no real lines of communication between workers in different districts. Aside from high-ranking district officials, the only forum where people from the various districts regularly meet, is the Hunger Games, where the victors meet at least once a year. During the Victory tour following the Hunger Games there is also often widespread travelling and socializing.

Who would be better suited to spread information and build inter-district networks than victors?

* * *

It turns out Peeta and I aren't the couple getting the most attention - or who at least are the subject of the most gossip - in the victor group this year.

It's Finnick and Annie.

It takes me a while to figure it out, as I'm so preoccupied with rebellions and mockingjays and wondering which victors might possibly be involved to see it. One night, after we've gone to bed, I say to Peeta that I don't get why Annie is always hanging around Finnick. He just laughs at me.

"You mean you haven't noticed? Seriously, Katniss."

"Noticed what?"

"How they are looking at each other? I mean, are you blind?"

And I guess I have been, because the next day, I see what he means. I was too preoccupied with my own problems to notice what was going on right in front of my eyes - and it certainly explains why Finnick has spent more time in District four this year than usual.

I never thought I'd see Finnick in love. I've seen him open more envelopes than I care to remember, and he's usually so slick and full of suggestive comments and remarks. I never thought he'd be close to anyone, that he'd never allow himself to be, or that he even wanted to be.

But he's in love with Annie. Broken, frail, mad Annie. Annie with the gentle voice and the nervous hands. The most unlikely victor of them all.

And she loves him back.

They sneak behind plants to kiss. Mags murmurs something about them sleeping in the same room together. There's a light in Finnick's seagreen eyes that I just haven't seen before. And when he looks at her, it's with so much adoration that it nearly brings tears to my eyes.

And through it all, he keeps getting envelopes.

I don't know how Annie survives it, knowing what he has to do with all those disgusting Capitol women and men in the dark, even though he's clearly together with her. Is he given even more envelopes this year just to spite her? Or am I just imagining how he seems to be kept incredibly busy? I think they try to stay low profile, but they must both know that there is no way they can hide their relationship, as we are all surely being watched.

On a rare occurrence that Finnick and I are alone together, when he's showing me how to make some new knots, I finally dare to talk to him about it. "You realize you're making her into a target, don't you?"

His able hands stop their work on the rope for just a split second, then they continue. "Katniss... She's been a target for years. I've loved her ever since I was mentoring her. Everyone knows."

Everyone. But me. And I know now what Snow has had on Finnick all these years. Annie is Finnick's Prim.

"So what's different now?"

He laughs. "Perhaps we're finally tired of waiting? Perhaps we saw you two. We saw that it was possible for two victors to be together. Even though you didn't really want to - but that's changed now, hasn't it?" I don't answer. "Perhaps it was just... time. To come out of the closet, so to speak. It seemed a useless and lonely place to be when everyone knew, anyway."

Everyone but me - but then again, I'm not very good at noticing people around me. I usually have more than enough with my own problems. Finnick throws away the rope he was working on, and gets another, longer one. "Here, I'll show you how to make a noose."

I wrinkle my nose. "I don't want to learn how to make a noose, I don't want to hang anyone."

His green eyes twinkle at me. "You never know, Girl on fire, you never know."

And then he teaches me, or tries to, as it's surprisingly difficult and I'm not a natural with ropes like he is. Peeta comes by briefly to see what we're doing, and he just rolls his eyes and leaves when he sees what I'm working on.

A question is burning on my tongue, and I hate myself for asking it, but I have to. "Was Annie sold, too?"

His jaws are clenched, he doesn't meet my eyes above our nooses. "Yes," he finally says. "Even in the mental state she was in after her Hunger Games... With the flood and all... She was. And I knew it was because of me, because I loved her."

Tears are burning in my eyes.

When are we ever going to be safe? It is just a question of time until Snow gets tired of Peeta and me playing happy married couple and decides to cash in on us? Prim is in constant danger. And I am, apparently, the symbol for a rebellion I know next to nothing about. The ground is burning underneath my feet, and I'm left in the dark. Where do I run?

"Now that's much better, sweetie," Finnick says, and he is, along with Haymitch, the only person who gets away with calling me stupid nicknames. He looks at my noose appreciatively.

"It's not as pretty as mine, but it will do the job. You're ready to start executing bad guys now, little Mockingjay."

He gives me a lingering kiss on the cheek, then leaves me, with the noose still in my hands.

* * *

Then follow the three days of training. We're not actually allowed access to the training grounds, but we follow our tributes from the victor control room, where we'll spend far too much time less than a week from now. I hate the room, and I think I'm not alone - everyone has seen far too many tributes die in here. I've only had to witness 23 deaths - there are tributes who have had to watch several hundreds of children die. How do they do it? I look at Mags, and wonder how she has been able to live with it for so long. Even though she's so old now that no one is really expecting her to do anything, I'm pretty sure she has a thing or two to say behind closed doors to the District four tributes. Her speech may not be that clear, and she may seem confused at first glance, but I've seen the look in her eyes. She doesn't miss a thing, and she has more experience than any of us here.

I have a distinct feeling that she's a very important part of the District four team.

Too bad their tributes suck as much as ours do, though.

Den isn't all that bad during training, but he's mainly been doing chores and looking after children all his life. How he's going to all of a sudden turn into a vicious killer is beyond me. He has no survival skills, at least not any skills that you would need in the average arena. They vary wildly, but there are often natural habitats that require you to have certain survival skills, such as gathering, hunting or fishing. I don't think he's ever been in a forest before. He's strong, and he can throw things pretty far, including axes. But does he have what it takes to smash in someone's head with a rock? I don't think so. Which is a good thing, really - if only he hadn't been reaped. Behind his stoic, closed exterior, he's a good boy, but being a good boy rarely gets you anywhere in the Hunger Games. In 75 years, I think Peeta must be the only victor who actually survived as a result of being a good person.

And Emilia? She's a disaster. She completely fails at most of the tasks during training, and I've seen from the looks the careers send her that she's only meat for them. They don't take her seriously at all. She doesn't impress the Gamemakers, either. She ends up with a two, which is one of the worst grades a tribute has ever received. Den gets a 6, which Effie says she can work with, but no one really knows what to do with Emilia. Kora gets an 11, but I hear rumors that she almost got a 12, which has never happened before in the history of the Hunger Games.

I try to talk to Emilia, one night up on the roof. We're there all alone, looking out over the vast Capitol. There light is pretty overwhelming for a seam girl who's used to oil lamps being the main source of light, and no street lights whatsoever. I should know, because I'm a seam girl, too. And this talk, seam girl to seam girl, is something I'm dreading, but it needs to be done.

"Emilia, I need to ask you some really tough questions. I don't want to hurt you, okay? But I need to know. If I'm going to do everything I can to save your life in the arena, you need to open up to me. Do you understand?"

She nods, looking down at her shoes. She's still stick thin, I try to get her to eat as much as possible, but even when placed in front of massive amounts of food, she'll only eat half a plate. I've tried telling her she needs to put on as much weight as she can, she's likely to starve out there in the arena, but it doesn't help.

"I need to know what you think about being in the Games. Surely you've watched it on TV many times - there are certain roles that people often take. Have you thought about what you're going to do?"

"I guess I'm the stupid, weak girl who gets killed by the Cornucopia."

I have to give it to her, she does have a certain sense of humor. And, unfortunately, from what I've seen so far, I think she may be right.

Except one thing: She's not stupid. I know she isn't.

"See, the thing is... You're from the Seam, like me. I happen to know about your family, because you live just a few houses down the street from where I used to live, and I asked my mother about you on the phone the other day. She said that your family is dirt poor, about as poor as my family was, and we were among the worst off in the seam. But I could hunt, and no one in your family did. So you must've had one of the most difficult childhoods I can possibly imagine - and still you survived. And you don't survive until the age of 13 in the Seam unless you're pretty tough. So what I'm thinking is that there is more to you than meets the eye."

She doesn't answer.

"Did your father beat you?"

She flinches. "Why do you ask that?"

"I've seen the look in your eyes before. All in Seam kids who were beaten at home. Or was it your mother?"

She looks down at her shoes again. "My father."

I nod. "I thought so. Your mother seemed genuinely devastated when you were reaped. For how long has it been going on?"

She shrugs. "Since forever." Child abuse isn't very rare in the Seam, unfortunately. It's a hard life, and some parents take it out on their children. "My father works in the mines, but he can't really handle it very well. He has claustrophobia. He deals with it there and then, because he has no choice if he wants to eat, but... He takes it out when he gets home. All his anger and frustration."

"On you or the whole family?"

"On all of us. But mostly me, I'm the oldest."

I nod. I'm the oldest, too. I've never had to deal with domestic violence, but I do know a thing or two about what you're willing to do for your younger siblings. The food I was willing to give to Prim, even if it meant that my own stomach was empty. "So I have a theory. I think that you're a survivor. You've made it this far, haven't you? You're small, because you've been hungry all your life, but you're stronger than you look. And you're smart. You don't want to show them the things you can do, the talents that you have. And I'm not talking about writing poetry here. Am I right?"

There's a shadow of a smile playing on her lips now. "Perhaps."

"You know Johanna Mason?" She nods. "She played that angle a few years ago. She did it very successfully, and she's still alive. The problem is, now that someone has won the Hunger Games with that strategy once, everyone's looking out for it more. So you need to play your part even more convincingly - if that's the strategy you're planning on following, that is. Although I have to confess that you've done the job pretty well so far. Perhaps too well"

She just shrugs again, but there's something in her eyes...

Perhaps we shouldn't give up on Emilia just quite yet after all.

"Emilia, if you're going to win this thing, you have to go into the arena thinking about only one thing, and that's your own survival. Nothing else. There is no time for anger, or crying, or being homesick or feeling that life is unfair. Because guess what: Life is unfair. It's unfair that you had to grow up being hungry every day, it's unfair that your father beat you, it's unfair that your name was drawn from a glass bowl and you have to face 23 other children who are all intent on murdering you to save their own skins. What I need from you is devotion, because if I'm going to spend hard-earned sponsor money on items that will keep you alive, you need to make the most of them. Frankly, we're not getting in much money this year because neither Den nor you are sellable to the sponsors. That two in training certainly didn't help, either. Our resources will be very limited, and I'll have to fight with Haymitch over who is to benefit from what little we have - you or Den. We will have to make some hard decisions about who to choose, and Haymitch will root for the tribute he deems more likely to win. And at the moment, that's not you. Am I making myself clear?"

She nods.

"So I need you to promise me to do everything you can to stay alive. Your best chance is to run away from the Cornucopia as soon as the 60 seconds are over. Don't grab anything, you're likely to end up with an arrow in your back or a stone in your skull. Run for your life. Get out of there, place as much distance between you and the Cornucopia as you possibly can." Okay, so that's what Haymitch told me - and I didn't do as he told me, so I'm hardly a good role model, and it nearly cost me my life."Promise me you will fight?" She nods. "You know, Seam brats have won the Hunger Games before. Twice. We're used to being hungry, and we're resourceful because of it. Okay?"

Emilia nods again, and this time she meets my eyes.

I smile.

Perhaps our tributes aren't quite as bad as I thought.

* * *

_**I've given you daily updates until now, but once I get to the actual Hunger Games chapters (which is very soon), it might take longer, as writing about 24 tributes in an arena, plus the victors who are watching, trying to keep track of who's alive and who's dead and what the arena looks like is pretty complex. LOL **_

_**Oh, and thank you so much for your continued support! I think we ended up at 99 reviews... who's going to write review number 100? :D**_


	10. Chapter 10: In a whisper

**Chapter 10: In a whisper**

The tribute interviews are a disaster, as expected. Den hardly says a word, and Emilia seemss completely helpless, even Caesar Flickerman can't make her relax. I'm not surprised, though - I don't know how much of it is real and how much is an act, but she certainly managed to come across as weak, whether or not it was intentional I can't say. The only good thing she can say about herself is that she "runs fast" (thank God she didn't mention the poetry), to which Caesar answers: "But that's great, it means you can run faster than the people who are trying to kill you!"

You'd think he was talking about running after a ball. They are all bastards, every single on of them, even Caesar, despite his seemingly cheery and caring exterior. How can he do this, year after year? Doing these interviews while knowing that 23 of them are going to die in just a few days? He comes across as a nice, caring person, even though he's from the Capitol. He does it best to make all the children shine. But how can he live with himself?

Peeta and I are being interviewed, too, after the tributes. This is very unusual, but Caesar wants to do a live interview with the star-crossed lovers of District 12, asking us about our marriage and wedding and whatnot. I'm doing these interviews on autopilot by now. Thank goodness I have Peeta.

Cinna has designed a spectacular dress for me, as usual. I think he's putting more work into my dresses than Emilia's - has he given up on her as well? It is another gray dress, the same color as my eyes.

The same color as a mockingjay.

Is it a coincidence?

I don't think so.

There are thin silver threads woven into the gray silk fabric, which makes the dress shimmer. It's like a gem, a precious stone, only as I move, the fabric shifts, and it seems like it's changing colors - from silvery to various shades of gray to nearly black. I twirl in front of the mirror, and I'm amazed to see that the dress gives almost gives the impression that I'm somehow not quite real, like I am something out of a fairytale or dream. The cut of the dress is somewhat more mature than most of the dresses he's designed for me so far - this is grown-up, married Katniss, not the skinny, starved 16-year-old girl who was reaped two years ago. The dress is hugging my curves in a way I'm not really sure if I feel comfortable with - but the look in Peeta's eyes as he sees me in it for the first time makes it worth it. "I just want to rip that dress off you," he whispers in my ear just before we go on stage.

And he's done it - again. He knows exactly how to ignite my fire, and I know that the Katniss they see on stage today is very different from the shy 16-year-old who was so nervous she didn't even hear what Caesar said to her two years ago. Tonight, I shimmer, I sparkle. My eyes are on fire. As we're just about to go on stage, Caesar shouts to the crowd, our cue to ener: "Peeta Mellark and Mrs Katniss Mellark!" I almost flinch when I hear his words, I have a hard time getting used to my new name still. I look up at Peeta, and he raises an eyebrow, then looks down at my dress. I blush. I know what he's thinking. Damn him for turning me on here, on stage.

I remember Finnick's words - Peeta knows how to play the game.

The crowd goes mad when they see us. The roar is deafening, and there are even a few women who are fainting. Suddenly, Peeta grabs hold of me, and to my surprise he's kissing me, right there on stage. His tongue is insistent, demanding access to my mouth, and I'm so taken aback that I allow it. His strong hands around my waist pull me in close, capturing me, as mine go up, instinctively pulling his head closer to mine, playing with his hair. Of course, this just heats up the crowd further, which I'm sure was Peeta's plan all along.

When he finally releases me, I have to hold on to him to keep myself from falling, I'm so dizzy. I blink against the light, my lips swollen from his kiss.

I realize then that I have to find a way to tell him about Haymitch's note. Peeta must sense that **something** is going on, that's evident from the way he's been acting lately, but I don't know how much information he has. But I do know one thing: By manipulating the crowd like this, he's making us very visible, both in Panem and in the districts. And the more visible we are, the more everyone loves us, the harder it is for Snow to just make us... Disappear in an unfortunate accident.

I definitely have to talk to Peeta.

As usual, Peeta does a great job at the interview. He's charming, handsome, funny, likeable.

What am I, then? In the past, I've either been panicking or just been a pretty little thing in beautiful dresses, really. I haven't had any... substance. But Peeta's words and lips have lit a fire in me, fueled my courage. I am the Mockingjay. In this silvery gray dress, shimmering. I am the girl with the berries. The one who defied Snow, for all of Panem to see. I know that I'm being controlled by Snow, that a silly girl in a pretty dress, madly in love, under his control, is the image he wants to project to the districts.

Everyone is watching now, these shows are always mandatory.

How can I show them that I'm not a puppet?

"What's it like to be back in the Capitol for the first time since the wedding?" Caesar asks us, and I think I surprise everyone when I answer the question instead of Peeta.

"You know, the Capitol is just amazing... But there is no place like home." I smile brilliantly at Caesar, and for just a split second, I can tell that I've caught him off-guard.

"We never got to go on a honeymoon, so we've been honeymooning in District 12 instead," Peeta says, his hand on my thigh, probably a bit further up than it should be to be proper. "We were looking forward to seeing another district, of course, but hopefully we'll go to District four some other time." His smile is a little bit too innocent.

"You two don't really seem to see quite eye to eye when it comes to this," Caesar remarks, "one of you wanting to travel, the other one preferring to stay at home?"

"Home is where the heart is, isn't it, Caesar?" I ask him. "My home will always be wherever Peeta is."

After some more chitchat about our wonderful love story, Caesar changes the subject to his favorite topic - the Hunger Games.

"Isn't it exciting!" He shouts, and the entire crowd cheers with him. "The 76th annual Hunger Games, starting the day after tomorrow! You two were in the games just two short years ago, so this must be so special for you, seeing the tributes that have been given the same great honor that you were given! Surely you can relate! So what do you think about this year's tributes?"

My pulse increases just by thinking about the "great honor" of being reaped. And yeah, I definitely can relate.

"It's certainly an interesting group of children this year," I say innocently. "The average age is quite low this year, did you notice, Caesar?"

He nods, but I don't think he expected me to say that.

"Can I tell you a secret?" I whisper to him conspiratorially. He nods eagerly. "I was pretty good in maths when I was in school." Now that's a lie, I hated maths with a vengeance. But Peeta was pretty good, and he's the one who did the maths a few days ago. He cried himself to sleep afterwards. "Last night, I found out that the average age of the tributes this year is only 14.2 years. Isn't that amazing? It's the lowest it's been in 28 years!" I raise my voice towards the end of the sentence, as if expecting the crowd to cheer, like they did when Caesar was driving them on earlier. But I only get a half-hearted response - some people start cheering, but most of them look uneasy, and the ones who were cheering quickly stop when they realize that the majority of the audience is silent. I beam at Caesar. "Of course, that's great news for me - my tribute, little Emilia who you had the pleasure of meeting just a little while ago, is only 13. And it's very demanding to mentor tributes that are this young, they usually don't last long when competing against career tributes who are 17 or 18, nearly adult. So this is a wonderful, wonderful opportunity for her." I just couldn't resist imitating Effie.

Behind one camera, I see the director make a movement with his hand across his throat, and it doesn't take much imagination to understand that Caesar has been ordered to round off the interview, much sooner than he had expected. Caesar takes it in stride, of course, always the professional.

"Well, say goodbye to Katniss and Peeta, everyone! We look forward to seeing your tributes in the arena!"

"And may the odds be ever in their favor," I say, and in that very moment, knowing millions of people are watching me, I've never felt more powerful. I **can** be their Mockingjay. I can be the symbol of the rebellion I know next to nothing about - but the rebellion can't possibly be worse than the alternative.

In two days, 24 children are being sent into an arena that's designed to make them murder each other. Only one of them will get out alive, and when he or she does, the victor's body will be sold to sponsors. The victor will never be free, he or she will be a capitol puppet for the rest of his life, like I am. The nights will be filled with nightmares, the days filled with alcohol, morphling, boredom, prostition.

But I am something more. **We** are something more. We won't be broken.

I am the girl on fire.

There might be a price to pay one day for what I just did, but right now, I just don't care.

As we reach the backstage area, we are met by Haymitch. "Wow," Peeta whispers, but quickly shuts up when he sees Haymitch's look. Haymith doesn't look happy, but there is something else in his eyes as well.

Pride.

His eyes meet mine, and he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

"Only one day to go," Haymitch says, as if nothing's happened. "What do we do tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we give them a break," I say.

After the usual round of autographs and photographs, we go back to our room for the night. I've been thinking of how to talk to Peeta without anyone listening in on the conversation. Our room is surely tapped, and I'm guessing we're under surveillance wherever we go. There is only one place where I think we might be able to talk.

The shower.

I'm guessing the bathroom is bugged as well, but perhaps the falling water will muffle out my whisper, especially if I get him to moan loudly at the same time...

It's the best I can do. I have to take the chance.

Peeta's standing by the window, looking out at the millions of lights that are Panem by night. It would've been beautiful, if the lights hadn't reminded me of just how dark it is in the seam at night, and if I had been able to see the stars. I'm used to navigating by the stars - I feel lost when I'm not able to see them.

Behind his back, I find the zipper of my dress, open it and let the dress, it makes a soft, wooshing sound as the soft fabric lands on the floor. Peeta quickly turns around at the sound, and is rewarded by the sight of me, standing just in black lace underwear - something I wouldn't normally wear, and he's never seen me in anything like it before, but Cinna insisted.

When I see Peeta's reaction to me, I'm glad Cinna made me wear it.

"Want to take a shower?" I ask him, and I can see that he's getting erect already. Wordlessly, he nods. He's so eager to get out of his clothes that I almost have to laugh, he's almost tripping over several times, and his tongue is practically hanging out.

We've never had sex in the shower before. It's not as if we've been sleeping together for a very long time, just a few weeks - and we've been under a lot of stress most of the time. So I guess this is killing two birds with one stone.

I have him naked in no time, and he has me up against the bathroom door even faster, ravishing my mouth as his hands roam over my body. As I begin to remove my bra, he whispers: "Do you really have to take it off right away? Can't you... leave it on a bit longer?"

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah." He kisses my neck, he knows I love that, and that I'll usually bend to his will when he does. "To tell you the truth," he says, in between his kisses, "I used to... dream about you in underwear like that. You know, before."

This surprises me. Peeta Mellark, dreaming about **me** in black, sexy lingerie? Black lace is about as un-Katniss-like as it gets. "Where did you get that idea, Peeta? A good merchant boy like you?"

"The good merchant boy has two older brothers," he confesses. "Who have porn." He's blushing now. He looks apprehensive, as if he's not sure if I'll get angry or not. I'm steering him into the bathroom, though, so I guess he understands that I'm not too upset.

"Will you do something for me?" he whispers, swallowing thickly. He's clearly nervous. He's staring at my breasts, I can see that he's aching to touch them.

"Another fantasy?" I cock an eyebrow.

"Yes." He clears his throat. "Willyougivemehead?" he says very quickly, so quickly I can hardly hear what he's saying.

"You want me to... use my mouth?" I ask him, I'm not really used to his terminology. No one's talked to me about these things before.

He nods, relieved. "Yes. It was just... Amazing when you did it... Before. But this time, could you please... Kneel in front of me? While I'm standing." He looks so nervous, and I realize how much courage it must take to talk about this fantasy out loud. He's afraid I'll laugh or get angry. His cock is rock hard and burning against my stomach. It's not quite what I had in mind - for my plan to work, my lips have to be very close to his ear, not down by his hips.

But why not do this first? The fire still hasn't died down from the kiss onstage. I'm also honored that he dares to share his fantasies with me - and if I don't do this now, surely he won't share his other fantasies later.

"Sure," I whisper, and get down on my knees before him on the bathroom floor, still dressed in the ridiculously scanty lace lingerie. I'm now at the level of his cock, already fully erect, just centimeters from my mouth. I study him closely, admiring his length, memorizing every detail of this moment. I hear a strangled sound from him, and I look up. He's looking down at me, his eyes fixated on my face, my mouth in such close proximity to his cock. "Do you like it when I'm on my knees for you?" I ask him, my voice low and husky.

He seems to struggle to find words, his mouth just opens and closes a few times, then he finally answers: "Yes."

And perhaps this should bother me, that he wants me on my knees, at his mercy. But it is in fact the other way around - he is at **my** mercy. **I** control his pleasure. And if the visuals of me doing this for him turns him on, then all the better. Peeta is the only person I could ever kneel to and find it... hot. Rewarding. Right.

I smile wickedly up at him, and then I take him in my mouth, running my tongue over his head, the opening, the ridge underneath its head. A strangled moan escapes from his lips. I hope the bastards listening in on us get some value for their money, I suddenly think, and the flash of anger makes me take him deeper. There is nothing slow or loving about this, it's hot and wet and hard and fast. My hand strokes him, synchronized with the movements of my mouth, and my other hand touches his balls, marveling at the softness, the hardness, the feel of his skin against mine. Involuntarily, his hands close around my head, getting tangled in my dark hair, pushing me closer, deeper. He goes too deep, and I gag, and fortunately he's able to register what's happening and releases me a bit.

"Sorry," he groans.

"No worries," I answer, his cock still in my mouth, muffling my words.

"Of fuck, Katniss," he moans, and I'm surprised by how much what I'm doing to him turns me on as well. He hasn't even touched my body, apart from my hair, and I'm already soaking wet, it feels like I'm almost dripping through the black lace panties. I consider moving my hand from his balls to between my legs, but decide against it. After all, if this plan is to work, I need to make this last. I plan to stop before he comes, but if I don't pick up his signals in time, I have to make very sure that he's owing me one.

Peeta never allows me to owe him one.

Judging from his sounds and the way he's starting to be unable to avoid moving against me, he's close. "I'm gonna... ugh!" he says, and that's his warning, I know it's because he's not sure if I'll want to swallow his come this time.

I appreciate his honesty and how, even now, he considers my feelings, but I have no intention of making him come, not yet.

I release him, pulling away from his body, looking up at his face over his muscular stomach and chest. He's in a haze, groaning uncontentedly and trying to catch my hands to put them on his cock, to finish him off. I rise. "Not quite yet, Peeta," I whisper in my ear. "I want this to last, we have all night."

He surprises me by biting me on my neck. He bites so hard I think I'll have a bruise next morning.

I don't care. I don't care if the whole world sees it.

"You're vicious, Katniss," he groans.

I laugh, a low, dark laughter I didn't even knew I had. "Just breathe," I tell him with a twinkle in my eyes, echoing his words on our very first night together.

How different this night is from that one. We are the same people, in the same city. There is still an element of fear - but all our reservation is gone.

"In and out. In and out." His grip on my thigh tells me he gets my double entendre.

"You'll be the end of me," he moans, and I laugh again.

"Get it together, Mellark."

"Yes, ma'am." We stand there together, our bodies close but not touching, eyes locked, while he gets his body under control. He exhales, a long breath, and shudders. "I'm good. For now," he tells me, pressing his cock into the soft skin of my belly.

"Want to take a shower with me?" I ask him.

"Only if you let me take off that underwear," he answers with a cocky smile.

Of course I let him. He's not very good at unhooking a bra, it takes him several attempts to figure out how the clasps work, and he mutters something about silly Capitol inventions. He gets down on his knees in front of me, slipping my panties over my hips. "It's soaked," he murmurs. "You really liked... What you did, didn't you?" It seems pointless to answer when he has the proof of my arousal in his hands, so I just nod, breathlessly.

He tries to steer me towards the bedroom, but it's essential that I get him into the shower, so I take his hand and lead him after me. I leave it to him to find a setting which doesn't smell too much. Luckily, he chooses one which involves copious amounts of water running over our bodies, making quite a lot of background noise.

Perfect.

He's already found out that I'm ready for him, and he's so aroused he doesn't waste any more time. Within seconds he has me pressed up against the wall of the shower, my legs up high around his hips, plunging into me almost violently. He makes grunting noises that are almost animal-like, and I can tell that, again, he's close to climaxing. I really have to make him last longer.

"Hey, Peeta, slow down," I moan, his cock deep inside me is making it very hard to concentrate, because the last thing my body wants is for this to slow down.

"I don't want to slow down," he pants in my ear, but when I pinch the skin of his back between two fingers, hard enough to hurt him to get him out of his hormonal fog, he finally listens and stops.

"Sorry. Was I hurting you?" he says, kissing me deeply, but keeping his body still.

"No," I'm finally able to answer, as I tear my mouth away from his to allow a breath of air to enter my lungs. "I just want this to last... longer." He meets my eyes, and as he does, his body tenses, ever so slightly.

"Katniss, what..." he begins, but I shake my head warningly and capture his mouth with another kiss, just as violently passionate as the previous one. I make a sudden decision. I need another distraction, besides the sounds of falling water. When we again come up for air, I tell him, all the while looking into his eyes: "Moan for me, Peeta. I want to hear how much you love fucking me." Now I definitely have his attention. I very rarely use that word, Peeta is usually the one who likes to indulge in a bit of dirty talk.

He starts slamming into me again, the first two thrusts are a bit hesitant, but then he picks up speed. And he does what I said - panting and moaning like there's no tomorrow. But even if he knows that I like it when he's loud, that it turns me on so much, I also know that this isn't what he usually does. It's too much. His cock is so deep now inside me now, every thrust is impaling me against the wall, and I can feel an orgasm approaching. Furiously, I fight it back, try to keep it at bay just a little bit longer. It is now or never. I whisper in his ear, very quickly: "There's a rebellion, in the districts. Snow wants to keep it secret. Tell me you love me if you hear me okay."

"I love fucking you, baby," he grunts in return, still pumping. He never calls me baby. Using words that are otherwise not in our active vocabulary is our way of communicating that this is on some level not real. Yet it is.

"Some of the other victors know something, I'm not quite sure who or what. You can probably guess a few, but I think there others as well. I'm the symbol of the rebellion, the mockingjay. We're walking on glass, all the districts are looking at us, and Snow needs to control us. Keep your eyes open, be careful, never talk. We need to find out what's going on." I whisper all this very quickly, so low I almost breathe the words into his ear. I sincerely hope no one can hear our words through all the background noise, but still I don't dare to name Finnick and Johanna - but with what they told us after the wedding, I guess he can put two and two together just fine on his own.

"I want to hear you scream my name," he groans, and I know what he **really** wants. I do as he says, panting and screaming his name, and I'm almost shocked by how much this increases my arousal further, I'm on the brink of coming, but I can't allow myself to come, not yet. This time he's the one who whispers in my ear: "What do we do? They could kill us, all of us. Our families, too. How can we help the rebels when we don't even know what they do or who they are?"

"Come for me, Peeta!" I scream, and then, when he starts to dissolve into deep, throaty moans and I know he's so close to exploding inside me, I whisper: "We keep our eyes open - and stay alive." Then he comes loudly, and I follow him, convulsing against him.

As we come down from our climax, the water still falling over our bodies, all that keeps me up is his weight pressing me into the wall. He gently lets me down, my feet finally touching the floor. We stay in the shower for a while after. I'm washing off the physical evidence of our encounter and we both scrub all the make-up off from our faces, wash the styling products out of our hair. When we get out of the shower at last, Peeta touches my shoulder and remarks: "The tiles made an imprint on your back and ass."

I look over my shoulder to see my reflection in the mirror, and giggle. "Yeah. Thanks for watching my back."

"Any time, Katniss. Any time."

We dry off the worst of the water before going to bed, but my hair is still wet, soaking the pillow. I'm absolutely exhausted, yet I can only think about one thing: The Hunger Games start in a little more than 24 hours.

Still I fall asleep.

* * *

_**Thank you to timta for giving me the idea of introducing Katniss as Katniss Mellark! I couldn't really fit it into the reaping ceremony, so I had Caesar Flickerman do it instead.**_

_**The Other Mockingjay now officially has 100+ reviews! Yay! Thank you so much! Please review, they mean so much to me. 3 Thank you for reading! Please check out my Tumblr at MockingJayFlyingFree, too. I post fan fic recommendations (all Everlark, of course), as well as other Hunger Games related posts.**_


	11. Chapter 11: Make me forget

_**Thank you, everyone, for PMs, reviews, favorites and follows! You had to wait a while for this chapter, and I'm sorry - but we were away for the weekend. The story is also getting more challenging, with the 76th Hunger Games coming up, and I doubt I'll continue to post a new chapter every day. **_

_**I didn't have computer access this weekend, but I did bring a pen and paper, and I used the opportunity to write down an overview of where the story is going. I had a rough idea in my head already, but it's much clearer now. It's also clear just how complex the story is going to be... and that it's going to be LONG. It will be an alternate Mockingjay in length as well as in the content of the storyline, I'm afraid. But if you're in for the long haul, then so am I!**_

* * *

**Chapter 11: Make me forget**

Fortunately, Haymitch and Peeta agree with me - we don't put any pressure on Emilia and Den today. This could very well be the last in their young lives, and it almost certainly will be the very last day when they won't be in mortal danger - in every moment of every day.

So at breakfast, we just tell them that they are free to do whatever they want. There will be no training, no mentoring, no prepping or styling or interviews. "If you want to talk, we're here," I assure them over a cup of tea. Den scowls at me, and Emilia looks at me with her gray Seam eyes, but as usual I can't read what she thinks or feels.

Haymitch, Peeta and I have a final strategy meeting, on the roof of the building. I haven't been here since that last night before the 74th Hunger Games, when I found Peeta here. It was night then, and I didn't think I'd live to see another. And while I was only concerned with my own survival, I found that Peeta's primary objective was not letting go of who he was.

He was always worth ten of me. I think that moment was the first time I realized just how different the two of us are.

Of course, there was also something else, something he didn't tell me. He wasn't being completely honest with me. His primary concern wasn't really preventing the Hunger Games from destroying who he was, turning him into a monster. It was making sure that **I** would survive.

The roof garden looks so different now, in the brilliant sunlight. We're so high up, most of the air pollution stays lower, so the air up here is almost fresh.

"So we need to discuss the current situation," Haymitch says.

"What situation?" I ask. "I mean, we all know how crap the situation is, don't we?"

"It's worse than you think," Haymitch says bleakly. "We have next to nothing from the sponsors. Den doesn't come across as particularly heartwarming, and besides, that Sarr boy from District ten is the one who draws in the Hunk funding this year."I nod. Sarr looks like something of a demi-god, and the women are going mad over him. If he wins, and remembering just how much sponsors can help you in the Hunger Games he just might, he could even give Finnick serious competition as the most desirable victor. "And Emilia..." Haymitch sighs. "With that two, there is just nothing to work with. Nothing at all. Without boring you with the details: We're pretty much broke. So we need to work out a plan on how to deal with the situation in the best way that we can."

"We all know that they're dead," Peeta says, and it's a shock to hear him say it. Peeta, who is always so optimistic and seeing the best in everyone. But he looks stern and serious now - and his eyes are hollow.

"Don't say it," I snap. "If we give them up, they have nothing left. Nothing!"

Haymitch sends me an annoyed look. "Okay, so I know this is pretty cruel and heartless, but it needs to be done, so I'll just say it. I honestly don't think Emilia stands a chance, and I think we should pool all the sponsor money into parachutes for Den. It makes no sense to waste money on someone who most likely won't even last a day. We don't have much, but if we spend it in the first few days, we can probably be able to buy a couple of sponsor gifts. If we wait too long, we won't be able to afford anything at all, so it's a question of timing as well."

"I can't believe we are just giving up on Emilia," I hiss. "I won't do it."

"It's what Haymitch did to me," Peeta points out, and I shudder.

"Yes, and it was wrong!"

"Not, it wasn't. It was the sensible choice." Haytmich is serious now.

"We really need to maximize our chances here. Getting them both out of that arena just isn't going to happen." I can't believe what Peeta is saying - or rather, that it's **Peeta** who's saying it. Does he even remember the words I whispered to him yesterday, as he was pounding into me in the shower?

I take a deep breath. "Look, why don't we just wait and see what happens at the Cornucopia tomorrow, and don't make any hasty decisions right now? We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Perhaps one of them will go down at the Cornucopia anyway, and then there's nothing left to fight about." I cringe when I hear myself saying that - I sound about as callous as Peeta just did.

After working out some more practical and less deadly details, Haymitch goes down to the bar. I can understand how staying sober today isn't really an option for him.

I'm still mad at Peeta. "How could you say that you're willing to sacrifice Emilia for Den, like it was nothing? Like her life doesn't matter?" I yell, as soon as we are alone. "You're starting to sound like the career victors!"

Almost as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. He seems to shrink in front of me, he won't meet my eyes, but I think he might be close to tears. I **want** him to react, though, I **want** him to get angry and yell at me, because I feel so terrible and helpless and frustrated all at once, and I need to pick a fight just to get some kind of outlet for my feelings. And poor Peeta is the only one I can pick a fight with.

"Perhaps you're right," he finally says, and now I can definitely see the tears. His reaction completely defuses my trying to pick a fight, and I feel, not for the first time, how I'm not worthy of him. What he deserves is a nice, pretty merchant girl, free of traumas and nightmares and without a complicated history. Instead he's stuck with me, a formerly starving Seam girl who has so many issues I don't even know where to begin to list them.

Instinctively, I reach for him, pull him into my embrace. I don't know who's comforting whom, as I've started crying, too. "How are we going to get through this?" I whisper.

"I don't know."

"Do you think it gets easier? In time?" I think of Haymitch. Is mentoring easier for him now than it was in the beginning?

Peeta shakes his head. "No, I don't think it gets any easier."

Judging from Haymitch's liquor problem, I'm afraid Peeta is right.

* * *

The last dinner is a subdued affair. Neither Den nor Emilia say a word. I don't know what they have been up to all day, probably just hiding in their rooms. It's all I can do to keep myself together, I can't break down in front of them.

Over dessert, I finally give them the only advice I can, knowing it will never be enough.

"There is only one advice that I can give you, and that's to run. Don't try to take anything at the Cornucopia - it's much more likely to get you killed right away than it is to get you something that will help keeping you alive in the long run." Den looks down at his plate, but Emilia is looking at me with those gray eyes of hers. Seam eyes, like mine. "Promise me," I insist.

She shrugs.

As Emilia is the only one who at least pretends to pay attention, I direct my next advice to her. "You said you had a talent for running. Well, running might just be the only thing that will keep you alive." I'm frustrated now, frustrated by the impossible situation we're all in and our tributes' lack of interest. I raise my voice, looking at both of them now. "Promise me! Promise me you'll **try**!" I won't let them worm out of making this promise, even if I can't hold them to it.

"Okay," Den mutters. I suddenly remember that he's 17 - just one year younger than I am. It seems like there's a lifetime of experience between us.

I look back at Emilia and lift my eyebrows questioningly.

"Okay," she answers.

"You need to find a source of water, and you need to try to get high up if the arena allows it, to get an overview and to make it easier to spot anyone coming to get you. The longer the distance between you and the Cornucopia is, the safer you'll be."

Haymitch shoots me a dirty look. Okay, so I know I'm just reusing his advice from when Peeta and I were in the Hunger Games.

"What she's trying to say is, in short: Stay alive," he says, dryly. He lifts up his glass, which doesn't contain water, and drains it. "I wish you the best of luck with that."

* * *

That night, as we go to bed, I just need something to help me forget. I can't do slow and soft and loving sex tonight. If there are any secret messages to be told now, I let my body do the talking. I take his breath away by practically throwing his body down on the bed, ripping open his trousers without bothering to pull them down his legs. All I do is freeing his cock from his clothes, taking it into my mouth. He seems stunned at my sudden agressiveness, but doesn't question it. His pupils dilate as I meet his eyes above his belly, and I can feel him growing hard in my mouth, more quickly than I ever thought possible. But despite it all, Peeta has the body of a teenage boy. Underneath the scars, the prosthetic, the traumas, the nightmares, is a horny 18-year-old - who loves me.

I need to hold on to that.

Tonight, I need to hold on to **him**, to cling to him to save whatever is left of my sanity. I can't imagine I'll get any sleep, knowing what will - or could - happen in the arena tomorrow. No one understands, except Peeta and Haymitch. Haymitch drowns himself in liquor. I need to drown myself in Peeta. I need to use his body to allow myself to forget, and I offer my own body to him to help him forget.

He nods in acceptance.

I've already set the stage with my actions, and he follows my lead. His hands shoot up, pulling my face up from his cock to his face, nearly assaulting my mouth with his tongue while ripping the dress I had to wear for this last dinner open- I can hear the fabric tearing and know Cinna's work is ruined forever, baring my breasts. He forces my body down on his, not bothering to remove my dress, just pushing the skirt up over my waist, ripping off my panties. I've never seen this Peeta before - he's been dark and angry before, but not like this. I tear his shirt open, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine. His kiss is crushing my lips, I can barely breathe, and I feel the full power of his strong baker's arms for the first time. It would be scary if I wasn't already hurting so much, and if I wasn't already so turned on.

"It's okay if you use me," I tell him as our mouths part, my eyes just a few inches above his own as we are lying on bed, one of his hands working on my right breast. I arch my back and moan loudly as he pinches a nipple, just a little bit too hard.

"You can use me as well," he grunts back, and there's no need to tell him that I'm already doing it, because we both know what we are doing here.

"I love you." I hold his gaze, I need to say it now, tonight, before we go any further.

His eyes soften for a few seconds. "I love you, too." Then the smile in them is gone. With a swift moment, he turns us around in bed, so that his body is on top of mine, crushing me with his much larger weight. "You need to let me know if I'm hurting you, alright?" he says to me, and I bring his mouth down to mine for another kiss, but he surprises me by turning me over, so that I'm lying down on my belly. I frown, not really understanding what he's doing. "Get up on your knees," he says, it's more of a command, really. I take a deep, shaky breath, but obey. Unsure, I look at him over my shoulder. The remains of my dress are around my waist, he is shirtless, his trousers and boxers still down by his knees. He tries to move, but gets stuck in his clothing and swiftly remove them, so he's finally naked. His cock is huge and hard up against his stomach. He meets my eyes, as his hands capture my hips.

He reaches a hand between my legs, testing my readiness. He grunts when he finds the wetness there, but he doesn't seem satisified, because he immediately starts working on my clit, so hard it's almost hurting. I'm sure I'll be bruised in the morning, and I try not to think about how uncomfortable it would be to have a bruise on **there**. His stimulating me in this position is a whole new experience, and I can't believe how much it increases the sensation of him rubbing me just where I love to be touched by him. I distantly think that surely the whole floor must hear my moans, but I couldn't care less. In a few hours, an unknown number of children will be murdered. At least **we** are still alive, and this is a way to remind ourselves of just that.

With a grunt, he moves his cock in position between my legs, and for one moment I'm not sure what he means, just where he intends to penetrate me. I open my mouth to say a warning, that I think he's too big for **that**, that other thing I heard the some girls talk about at school before - how you could have sex with boys and still be a virgin, they claimed. He's holding me tightly, I can't move, and for a moment I panic. But then I feel his cock entering me, there's no resistance because he's been there before, inside me. I quickly lost count of the number of the times we've had sex, although I tried to keep track of it at first. I arch my back, and he rams into me, my head hitting the headboard of the bed from the force of his entry. He lets out a low, strangled scream as he hits the very bottom of me, and I'm stunned by how deeply he's penetrating me. There is both pleasure and pain, and I don't know which one wins out, so I keep very still. Thankfully, so does he. One of his hands goes around my hip, and two fingers return to my clit again, working me relentlessly.

Okay, so there's definitely more pleasure.

"Say it, Katniss," he groans, and in my hazy state I can hardly understand his words, let alone what he means.

"What?"

"What do you want me to do to you?"

"Take me, Peeta. Make me forget. Just take me hard."

And he does. He starts pounding into me with more force than I've ever experienced from him. The position doesn't really allow me to do much, especially when he's controlling the movements of my hips with his hands, so I quickly give up any pretense of control or participation and just allow myself to be thoroughly fucked from behind.

There's a desperation to him that I haven't experienced before, and even though I know why it is so and hate the reason for it, his almost losing control like this also surprisingly hot. He's in so deep, he keeps ramming into my cervix from a new and strange angle and it hurts, not too bad but it's uncomfortable, but it would seem all my mouth and throat are able to do is moan and gasp loudly. He's picking up speed now, I can hear from his familiar sounds that he must be close, and I think there is no way I'll follow him, with the depth of this penetration and the lack of clitoral stimulation there is just now way. But then, surprisingly, I feel something building up in me, a wave I'm completely unprepared for. It's so sudden and overwhelming all I can do is scream, a sound I've never heard coming from my throat before, and it must've triggered his release as well, because there is no mistaking the sounds he's making and how he's moving behind me now, filling me up with his seed.

We both slump down in bed, panting, his body covering mine. He's so heavy, I can hardly breathe, yet it feels good. His mouth is close to my ear, his cock still inside me. We don't say anything, because there is nothing left to say. We just lie there, together, panting. At last I have to give in to the feeling of losing my breath, his weight crushing down on me is just too much for me to handle, and I squirm, silently asking him to move. He slips out of me and rolls down on his back, I feel his seed spilling out of me to cover the insides of my thighs as he rolls me with him. I'm lying with my head on his shoulder. I kiss his jaw absentmindedly while he's stroking my hair, over and over again. It's so soothing, he somehow manages to make me feel safe even in and the desperate situation we're in.

Before I know it, I'm asleep.

* * *

It's the first day of the 76th Hunger Games. We're not allowed to meet our tributes on this last, fateful morning - from now on, the only way we can communicate with them is through parachutes. But our funds are precariously low, and there is no way of knowing if they will actually understand what we try to tell them with our gifts, anyway.

I remember what it felt like for me, only two years ago, in these last few hours. The fear, the helplessness, the determination that I knew, deep inside, probably wouldn't help me much. I wonder what the arena is like? The arena in the Quarter Quell, shaped like a clock with different mortal dangers appearing in different sections of the arena every hour, will be hard to top. The Quarter Quells are supposed to be the most spectacular games, something really special - but still, that was last year. This year, there is new sponsor and commercial money to be made, and the hungry crowd of the Capitol - and to a certain extent also some of the districts - must be satisfied.

We go to the Victors' Control room early to find our places. This is where we will spend an unknown amount of time over the next days or weeks, depending on how our tributes fare and how long the games last. We thought we were there early, anyway, but it turns out almost all of the others have already arrived. Only the District six victors still haven't showed up, which isn't very surprising, given that all three of them are morphling addicts. You'd almost think that the addiction was contagious, but Haymitch once told me that it started out with one of them, the very first District six victor who's now in his sixties, and then the two others followed his example, one by one. Having been mentored by Haymitch, I find it kind of hard to believe that seeing your mentor's addiction would encourage you to do the same - but if morphling helps with nightmares, it might explain a thing or two. I know that coming from District six, the district specializing in transportation, means easy access to drugs. Parcels disappearing on-route from factories in other districts, never arriving in the Capitol.

Where there just a few days ago was socializing between victors from different districts, many of them friends, there is now an eerie silence, hushed voices and scanning looks. We used to be united - but now we keep to our own.

There is a knot in my stomach that just won't go away. What is the arena like? What dangers are lurking there? Will Emilia and Den survive the usual blood bath at the Cornucopia? Do they follow our advice and run? Or do the fall for the temptation to try to get something, something to help them survive - a knife? Some water purifying tablets? A sleeping bag? I sincerely hope they don't, because it will more than likely kill them. But what if the arena is staged so that you really **need** some items from the Cornucopia to survive? What if our well-meaning advice will actually kill them?

We'll know soon enough.

And then the 76th Hunger Games begin, with pompous orchestral music as we get the first view of the Arena, an aerial shot. I gasp as I see it, and there are several muffled cries of surprise and shock coming from other victors in the room, too.

It's a city in ruins. Blackened by fire, many of the buildings are torn down. It must've been massively expensive to build it, it's such an intricate and large location. And it's not a real city that was set on fire - it was all built. Feeling the vomit rise in my esophagus, I see the Hall of Justice of District 12, I can mostly just recognize it from the very distinctive bell tower, as the rest of it is all in ruins. The buildings around the square are all scorched black, in various states of ruin, but there is no mistaking what they are. The shops around the square have been replicated down to the smallest detail, and then they have been set on fire.

I can even see the Mellarks' bakery.

But it's not all District 12. I guess that would give our tributes too great of an advantage. And it would be intimidating to viewers from District 12 only.

I remember several of the buildings and places from our Victory tour.

The great cathedral in District one, the guilded roof full of holes from what I can only imagine is bombs, one of the two main towers is in ruins.

The bridge from District four, the pride of the district, twisted and fallen into a dried out river.

The largest power plant from District five, still on fire.

I don't recognize all the districts, as I don't know many of them very well and most of the Victory Tour is thankfully a haze to me, but I'm sure they are all represented. There is something to scare everyone.

I know Snow is standing behind me, on the walkway along the wall of the control room, staring down at us. I can feel his eyes in my back. I know this isn't just a warning to me, it's a warning to everyone. To victors and the populations of the districts alike: This is what will happen to you if you oppose us.

Peeta's hand finds mine as we look at the ruined city on the huge main screen in front of us. From the corner of my eye, I see Haymitch clenching his jaw, his eyes cold as stone.

And then the tributes emerge from their glass tubes. They stand on their platforms, their eyes blinking against the strong light, trying to focus. They have sixty seconds to take it all in. To see where they are, to see the cornucopia, get some kind of idea of the items there, what they would like to go for, where to run and hide.

Where will they find food in these ruins? Where will they find water? The river is dried out. Panic is rising in me. If we had gotten an arena like this one, I surely would've died. I was used to surviving the forest, and the arena gave me an advantage over most of the other tributes. This arena is difficult for everyone, but it's advantageous for the tributes coming from the more populous districts, who have grown up in larger towns or cities.

I scan the tributes, as they stand there on their platforms, waiting for sixty seconds countdown to finish. Not more, but certainly not less. I know how those sixty seconds feel like an eternity, and how important it is to keep your nerves in check. After the sixty seconds are up, there is no time for uncertainty, for hesitation.

Are they going to follow our advice?

The Victors' Control room is deathly quiet. Everyone in this room knows just how important these first minutes are. The careers have surely already formed an alliance, which effectively makes it very hard for anyone from the other districts to get access to any good weapons, food or equipment.

There is lots of food in front of the cornucopia, which isn't promising. This usually means that food in the arena is otherwise scarce, or very hard to find. The usual assortment of weapons is there. But there is also... my breath catches.

Dammit. There's a well there.

This doesn't look good.

The camera focuses on the face of Twitch, the boy tribute from District one for a moment, as he sees the well - and he smiles a devilish grin. He has no doubt understood what I've already figured out: That the careers will seize control of the well - and the very presence of it here, by the cornucopia, almost certainly means that there are few other sources of water in the arena. Perhaps this is even the only one. This is how they will draw the other tributes out, provoking confrontations - and give the careers the upper hand, from the very beginning.

And then they run.

* * *

_**There were several people who together gave me the idea of this arena! This arena is going to be a mix of timta, wakebytheriver, Ms. Singer and my ideas. Thank you so much! I hope it will live up to your expectations.**_


	12. Chapter 12: The 76th Annual Hunger Games

_**Sorry this update has taken a while, but I had to finish writing about the 76th Hunger Games before I could post this chapter. It's been very challenging - keeping track of 24 tributes, many of which I can't really get into too much because it's just too much to juggle (it's not a coincidence that we don't hear very much about quite a few of the tributes in The Hunger Games and Catching Fire, I think LOL), who's alive, who's dead, who they are, which districts they come from and who's mentoring them... **_

_**Thank you again for all PMs, reviews, likes and favorites! They mean so much to me! And I love to hear what you think, please review!**_

_**Anyway! The 76th Hunger Games are on. Enjoy!**_

**Chapter 12: The 76th Annual Hunger Games**

I see it as if in slow motion. There are multiple cameras, shown on a large multiscreen covering an entire wall. I know the viewers will only get to see one tribute at a time, but this arrangement allows us as mentors to see all of the tributes simultaneously, following the ones that we have special interest in, while keeping a casual - and sometimes watchful - eye on the others at the same time. I know that our tributes are unlikely to get much airtime, even if they survive the Cornucopia, because their scores were either bad or mediocre. They haven't done or said anything which makes them stand out in the interviews.

They're only likely to be on the air at the moment of their deaths.

The wall of movement and colors is confusing, and at first I can't find Den or Emilia. But then I see them, both down in the lower right corner. Emilia makes a run for it, and she actually is as fast as she promised in the interview with Caesar. Like a deer she disappears, she is all legs as she turns around a corner, now safe from the arrows which are already coming from the male district two tribute. I quickly scroll down the notes Peeta gave me, I don't remember his name. There it is, Mend. Next to his name, Peeta has scribbled: "Has a bad reputation, even in District two. Killed his mother when he was 11, too fond of knives." Apparently, he's also fond of bows - he's very, very good. One of the best archers I've ever seen, I'm pretty sure he could rival me, perhaps he's even better. Next to his name it says 11, with a red circle around it. I'm guessing he got an 11 by showing off his arching skills as well.

The first cannons are already going off, as Mend shoots one arrow after another. I can't help but watch as he shoots first one tribute in the back, then another, and then another. I hear Johanna swearing badly behind me, and know that at least one of her tributes is down. Then another... And another... From the corner of my eye I see Twitch butchering a 12-year-old girl with an axe, one of the District eight tributes.

Where is Den? I frantically search for him, for any sign of life. He hasn't been shot yet, has he? My mouth is dry, my heart pounding. There is nothing we can do to help them here, now, in these frantic first minutes by the Cornucopia. They are on their own.

And then I see him.

He didn't follow our advice. Instead he's trying to get a rucksack and a large knife. "Damn you, Den!" Haymitch murmurs by my side, and I know he's thinking the same thing I do.

His chances of surviving the initial blood bad just dropped dramatically.

"Run, idiot!" I say, I didn't mean to say it out loud, but I did, and I can hear several of the career victors snigger at me behind my back.

And then it happens.

Mend's arrow finds him. It hits him low, just below his rib cage, slightly to the side, and as I watch in terror, it tears through his kidney area, and the force is so large that the tip of the arrow comes out of his stomach on the other side. I'm a hunter, so I know just how massive the damage to his internal organs is. Even if he'd had access to the very best care in a Capitol hospital, I'm not sure if they could've saved him. And here - in the Hunger Games - he has no chance. I know the audience of Panem only sees a few seconds of his death, as there are more interesting things going on in the arena - the first hours of the Hunger Games are the highest-ranking TV event in Panem, every single year.

But **we** have to watch. He has a screen, down in the lower right corner, that's just for him. Just for Den. As his skin grows deathly pale and gray, he's touching the tip of the arrow. His hands are covered in blood, and I see from the terror in his eyes that he knows he's going to die. It's mercifully fast - I'm guessing the artery to one of his kidneys has been severed, and he's bleeding out fast. I want to hide against Peeta's chest, I don't want to watch, but I can't seem to tear my eyes away. I watch Den die, on screen. His body goes limp, his eyes become glassy.

There is yet another blast of the cannon.

And with it, we have failed yet another District 12 tribute.

"It looks like we don't have to fight over which tribute gets the sponsor money anymore," Haymitch mutters, then takes out a small bottle from his pocket and empties it in one huge gulp.

A few hours later, when the tributes are too busy either exploring the items at the cornucopia or hiding from the careers to kill anyone, all the victors make a list together over which tributes are alive and which ones are dead. In the chaos that was the Cornucopia, no one really had time to follow more than their own tributes.

It's been a particularly bloody start this year. 13 tributes are dead already - there are only 11 left. I'm not sure if the game makers are happy about that - after all, it's a show, people in the Capitol have been looking forward to this for a year, and there would be riots in the streets if the winner were to be announced after just a few days. So the pace of the killings must be slowed down somewhat, for which I'm relieved.

We lost Den, but we still have Emilia. Which is more than many of the other districts can say. Annie is crying, and Finnick is looking very gloomy. Not surprisingly, both their tributes are dead. They'd complained that their tributes sucked, and it seems like they were right. This must be a shock to all of District four, which is a career district.

Just not this year.

Johanna, who complained of the same shitty tributes, still has one left, though - the boy, called Aton.

Surprisingly, the girl from District two is dead. Rayn took a knife in the back from one of the District 11 tributes, both of which are now dead. Rayn's death must be a blow to the careers - their strength is as much in numbers as in training and viciousness, and their pre-formed alliance usually ensures their safety at the Cornucopia simply because everyone knows that they always protect each other. Enobaria is furious, she clearly didn't expect this to happen, and nearly gets into a fight with Chaff.

Districts 8 and 9 lost both their tributes, but the boys from 3 and 5 have both made it, and I make a mental note that both of them are probably used to cities, which might give them an advantage in this arena. The same is true for the two district 6 tributes, both of which are alive. That's another surprise, both of them are very young, but they did what Emilia did - they took off without trying to get any supplies or weapons from the Cornucopia. The remaining tribute from district 10, known for its livestock, won't have an advantage in this arena, but at least he's still alive. Sarr, this year's Finnick-lookalike, isn't looking quite as handsome now as he did during training, not to mention his interview with Caesar Flickerman.

When I sit down for the first time in several hours, I find that my entire body is shaking. I'm starting to hypeventilate, but Peeta's soothing hand on my shoulder and his quiet words to "breathe, Katniss, just breathe," manage to bring me back. I know I can't have a breakdown here, in front of all the other victors, head gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee, not to mention Snow, who's still here. He's walking from one district's station to the next, right now he's talking to Johanna. I had almost expected her to strip to relieve the tension after one of her tributes was butchered in less than one minute, but surprisingly she is still fully dressed. I can't hear what they are saying, but I can see the envelope she receives, and the way her shoulders slump when she sees it.

Snow certainly has a way with timing. He knows exactly how to break someone.

Then he comes to us. His face is entirely unreadable as he looks at us, the three District 12 victors. Haymitch is drunk, and there is something vicious in his eyes - Den's death has touched him deeply, even though I'm sure he's trying very hard not to care. I hope he'll be able to hold his tongue now that Snow is here. Peeta is standing behind me, still with a hand protectingly on my shoulder. "Haymitch." Snow nods to him, and Haymitch narrows his eyes, but answers:

"Mr President," and nods curtly.

"And Mr and Mrs Mellark." He sits down in Haymitch's chair, as if casually, swivelling around in it a few times. "How's marriage treating you? Panem's favorite newlyweds?"

"Good," I answer, smiling, hoping the smile doesn't look as stiff as I feel that is is. My face is like a mask, but not a very good one. My heart is pounding.

I think Snow can smell fear, like a wild animal.

"Keep this up, Katniss, and I just might start to believe in you," he says. I hardly dare to breathe, and I can't think of anything to say. Even Peeta doesn't know how to respond. "By the river, for instance. Quite charming." My face is reddening, and I can feel Peeta's fingers digging into my shoulder reflexively.

Even there, they were watching us.

I feel anger surging in me - that even that moment, which is such a precious memory to me, can be tainted. Peeta makes a strangled noise behind me, but he doesn't say anything. I just look down at the floor. "Well, good luck with your remaining tribute in the Hunger Games, district 12. May the odds be ever in her favor." There is something in his voice, an undertone of something...

As soon as Snow finally leaves the room, I break down, hiding my face in my hands. Tears are streaming down my face. I know that this is something I shouldn't let all the other victors see, and that Snow will most certainly hear about my breakdown within seconds. I hate myself for this display of weakness, of emotion, it's something I just can't afford, but I can't help it.

Peeta kneels in front of me, holding my shoulders, whispering in my ear: "Get it together, Katniss. We can talk about this later. Not right now." This makes me sob even louder, and a distant part of my brain is appalled that I can't control myself, control my feelings. He whispers into my ear again, more insistently this time: "I know it hurts, and I know we don't deserve this, to have every good thing in our lives trampled on and observed by others. But we're **more** than that. They may watch, but they can't take away what we feel. Okay?"

I nod, forcing myself to slow my breathing. The shame is not ours, I tell myself. The shame is not ours.

"Right now, we have to focus on one thing, and that's Emilia's survival. Emilia. We can deal with this later. Okay?"

"Yeah." I dry my tears, not caring if all the other victors see my red-rimmed eyes. I straighten my shoulders, and look at the multiscreen on the wall.

The huntress is back.

I rarely show my true feelings in public, and inwardly I scold myself for losing it like this. It can't happen again. It's not as if they haven't seen us having sex before, what's one more time, really? Even if they heard me saying that I love him, for real, for the very first time, what's the big deal? Our relationship has been on public display since long before there even was a relationship.

Focus.

I look around at the other victors. Some are following the multiscreen, others are speaking in hushed whispers. Enobaria is on the phone, I'm guessing she's talking to a sponsor. On screen, the District one tributes get a bouquet of flowers. Flowers! I'm appalled that they have so much sponsor money that they are wasting it on **flowers**, congratulating them on seizing control of the Cornucopia, not to mention the well. We have next to nothing to offer to our tribute, who will dearly need all the help she can get. I search the multiscreen for Emilia, and I'm relieved when I find her, going through a burned down buliding, searching for shelter or food. I'm glad she's safe, at least for now, but it's not thanks to me. I study the way she moves - it's like the street cats in District 12 at night. They search for scraps of food and mice wherever they can find them, moving carefully and almost soundlessly, ready to take off at any second.

Street cats are survivors.

Do you have a plan, Emilia?

There is more to this girl than meets the eye.

I make a decision. I walk over to the District four area, where Mags, Annie and Finnick are sulking. I know how they feel - the same thing happened to me last year. Both tributes lost, just like that, it was all over in minutes. The feeling of failure was overwhelming. "Hey, Mags," I say, because I know that she is the unofficial leader of the group, even though Finnick is the one who gets all the attention. Finnick listens to her. And Annie listens to Finnick. I'm not quite sure of the other two District four victors, I don't know them that well, but I know they're friends of Haymitch's, and I think that they, too, will do as Mags says.

If I can get Mags to follow me, I have District four in my pocket.

"Do you have much free sponsor money?" I ask them, getting straight to the point. If both tributes from a district die, and there is sponsor money left, two things can happen. Some sponsor money is earmarked for a certain tribute or district, and that money will get lost if the tribute dies. But some sponsor money is called "free" sponsor money, and it can be used at the victors' discretion even if both of the District's tributes are dead. That's how District 11 could give me the bread in the Hunger Games - it wasn't tied to a particular victor or district.

"Not much," Mags answers, her voice surprisingly clear. She can be hard to understand sometimes, but I know she understands everything I say.

"Look, we're fighting against the odds here. Emilia got a two, we hardly got any sponsor money at all. The arena looks like a shitty place to be, I don't know if there are any food and water sources there at all. We need to help her."

"She's a goner," Finnick says, but he's studying me carefully.

"No, she's not," I cut him off. "She's **alive**. And she's resourceful, more resourceful than she looks. I mean, she's survived in the Seam. Look at her." I nod to the multiscreen, where we see her looking around like a hunter, hunched, carefully planning her next move, before she sprints across the street to check out the insides of yet another house. She does look helpless, in the sense that she's tiny and unarmed, but there's something about the way she moves, something that tells me I just can't give her up, not quite yet.

"She's 13," I say, not allowing Mags to break eye contact with me. "She doesn't deserve to die."

"None of them do," Finnick says.

"True. But just give her a chance? Perhaps she'll be the biggest surprise of them all this year."

"It's a waste of hard-earned sponsor money," Finnick insists, and I wonder if he's done anything himself, to... earn it.

"Then who do you think **deserves** the money, Finnick? Who do you think would win - are you going to hand them over to the careers? They have enough as it is, you **know** that!" I'm standing very close to him now, hissing into his ear. Ideally, I'd want to yell, but I don't want all of the other victors to listen in on this conversation. "If you take the careers out of the equation, what are you left with?" We both look up at the betting board, with odds and pictures of all the remaining tributes. "The others are all as unlikely to win as Emilia is, with the possible exception of Sarr the Hunk. They are all young and utterly unprepared for the careers. She's not worse off than any of the others. This is really a question of who you want to team up with?"

I know this is probably not really fair - it's emotional blackmailing. I don't really know what's happening in the districts, but I do know there's a rebellion, I know District 4 is involved, and I'm pretty sure that Finnick is somehow involved, too. I also know that I'm important to the resistance. Which makes **me** important to Finnick. And if I have to take advantage of that situation to save Emilia's life, then that's exactly what I'll do.

It takes a while to get them to agree, but in the end I can triumphantly tell Haymitch that our sponsor money just more than doubled. I use the same tactics on 8, 9 and 11 as well, and manage to get some money from 11. At least it's much better than nothing.

The first day of the Hunger Games is not only the bloodiest, it's also the one which is the most exhausting for us as mentors. We need to follow more than ten screens simultaneously, along with maps, making notes of just what all the tributes are coming across, trying to figure out the arena. Understanding what the gamemakers are up to, trying to stay one step ahead of the game.

It's even worse than I thought. So far, no one has found any water sources, and only two of them have found any food in the ruined houses. One of them is Emilia, who found two cans of tomatos. I know the fluid will mean she can go on longer than many of the others, and she can make use of the empty cans, too. Plus it's shown her that there **is** food to be found - if you're lucky, persistent, and make the right decisions.

What's worse is that it soon becomes apparent that the city isn't just burned down, with copies of buildings from all the districts - there is something else as well. It's hardly noticable at first, but then we see that the tributes are being herded together. We follow Bendy from District 6 and Aton from district 7, and are surprised when we see that they, despite seemingly going in opposite directions, still end up in the same street. The streets take unexpected twists and turns, some are blocked by rubble, forcing you to go in other directions than you had planned.

It's a maze.

Bendy and Aton are suddenly faced with each other, but they are both unarmed and terrified, and run off in opposite directions again, without even attempting to kill each other. But what if one of them had been a carreer? Then the other would most certainly be dead now.

I look absentmindedly at one of the minor multiscreens which shows images from cameras which aren't currently on the main multiscreen because there aren't any tributes nearby - and I freeze when I see one of the houses **move**. I gasp, and Peeta follows my eyes. His jaw clenches, he figures out what this means before I do.

"Fuck," he hisses.

The gamemakers can change the streets at their own will, forcing the tributes together by manipulating the maze. This also means that even if you've been in an area before, you can't know what it will look like the next time you come there. You can come running down the street with a mutt chasing you down, only to make a turn and find that where there was an open street yesterday, there is now a house or a huge pile of rubble, blocking you.

Damn them.

Why did they move the house now? "Look," Peeta whispers in my ear, and we look up at the map of the area - it's not detailed, as we know little about the arena so far, and more details will be revealed as we go. But we can see tiny dots of light, in different colors, moving around. The signals from the trackers in their arms. There is a purple light with the photo of a young boy on it coming in that direction - it's the boy from District 5, I don't remember his name. Then he comes into view of the camera I was looking at earlier. He doesn't see that the house moves, he's oblivious to the game maker's manipulation. He also doesn't know that he is being forced to walk in the direction where two red lights are coming against him - Kora and Mend. Twitch is back at the Cornucopia, standing guard.

We can only watch in horror as the boy suddenly finds himself face to face with the two careers. It's fast, which is a mercy despite the horror of it all - he catches a knife in his back as he tries to run, and he's dead within a minute. Kora is amazing with knives, I'll have to give her that. There is cheering and laughter among the District one and two victors, and on screen Kora makes a happy little dance of joy while Mend simply laughs. It's nauseating to see, both on screen and the victors, congratulating themselves on the first kill outside the cornucopia. The cannon goes off, and I feel it in every fiber of my being just how much I hate that sound.

And then they were 10.

Then the pace slows down. The gamemakers don't shift any more walls or houses the rest of the day. I guess they don't want to kill off all the tributes too soon - 14 have died in only one day. They do after all want the show to last long enough to get maximum sponsor and advertising money out of it. Maximum impact. The mood in the victors' control room is divided. Quite a few of the victors have already lost both of their tributes, and they are understandably upset, angry, sad, indifferent or a mixture of any of the four. A few are drinking, one of the district six morphlings is openly shooting morphling into a vein. Some have left, others are hanging around to see what's happening. Many friendships have been formed between victors over the year - as curious as it sounds, the Hunger Games is also a bit of a social arena for many of them. Even for people like me.

For us, having Emilia alive, there is a lot of work ahead. Haymitch continues his efforts to get more sponsor money, both from sponsors and free money from districts which have lost both their tributes. Peeta and I try to cover as many screens as possible between us, getting to know everything we can about the arena and the opposition. I'm focusing on the careers, who I consider to be Emilia's greatest threats. All three of them have now retreated to the Cornucopia, where they go through all the items left there. The careers taking control of the Cornucopia happens every year, but what's special about this year, is that they are only three. Usually they are six, sometimes more, if they have made alliances with tributes from other districts as well, such as Peeta in the 74th Hunger Games. This year, Rayn unexpectedly died, and the district four tributes were so useless they were probably never even considered for their alliance. This means that their numbers are very low, and they have to be more careful.

"I'm guessing one tribute is going to stay by the Cornucopia to watch it at all times, leaving only two tributes to track down the others," Peeta says, clearly thinking what I'm thinking.

"Unless the others are being forced back to the Cornucopia," I answer. "As far as we know, the well is the only source of fresh water in the arena."

"There must be something somewhere," Peeta mutters, but so far, only Emilia has found any fluid. I'm very glad she will be able to hold off returning to the Cornucopia longer than any of the others, at least the way things look now.

The recap that night is horrible. 14 faces are lighting up the sky in the arena tonight. 14 families have lost a loved one. We watch Emilia, who's found shelter in a partly burned-down house. She's cleverly found a house which is hard to enter, but still has an emergency exit if she's found. The arena doesn't seem to be particularly cold - she doesn't have a sleeping bag, yet she's not shivering, and manages to fall asleep relatively quickly. She wisely hasn't opened either of her two cans of tomatoes yet, saving them for later. None of the other tributes have found water yet.

They'll all start to get really thirsty by tomorrow.

It's getting late. "Why don't you two go and get some sleep?" Haymitch suggests.

"You need to sleep, too," I object.

"I need less sleep than any of you," he answers, "besides, if you two don't sleep together, you'll just have nightmares, anyway, and then there's no point in even trying."

He doesn't say it, but both Peeta and I know that Haymitch doesn't like to sleep when it's dark outside.

Peeta cries himself to sleep. He knew Den much better than I did - I had concentrated on Emilia. Peeta has seen Den in the orphanage so many times, and he'd started to bond with him. And then, in just a few minutes, Den was gone. There is nothing I can say that will comfort Peeta, there are no words that will help. All I can do is hold him, stroke his hair and kiss away his tears.


	13. Chapter 13: A mutt of a different kind

**Chapter 13: A mutt of a different kind**

The night, predictably, is full of nightmares, for both of us. By dawn, Peeta is finally asleep. I got in a few hours of sleep after we first went to bed, but by now I've given up any hope of getting more. I just lie there, in the darkness, listening to his breathing. He doesn't seem to have any nightmares now, his respiration is slow and even. It's hard to tell when he has nightmares, sometimes, because he doesn't tend to scream his head off, like I do. Instead, his muscles tense, and his respiration is strained and uneven. If I'm asleep myself, I mostly won't even notice. He says that waking up and finding me there in his arms makes the nightmares go away, but I always feel terrible after one of his bad nights - knowing that I got to sleep, and he was caught in his nightmares without me waking him up to help him, to comfort him.

At least by staying awake, I can watch over him, keep the nightmares at bay. At dawn, the room changes from pitch black to various shades of gray, almost imperceptibly. I just lie there, watching his face, seeing more and more of his features by the minute. He is so beautiful when he's sleeping, his face relaxed. He looks so young. Sometimes, during the day, it's hard to remember that he's only 18 years old.

At sunrise, the first rays of the morning sun kisses his hair with flames.

At seven, I know I must wake him. We need to go down to the victor's control room to relieve Haymitch. Regretfully, I touch his face, whisper loving words in his ear. He opens his eyes, and smiles lazily. I think it takes him a little while to register where we are, why we are here. His smile fades as he remembers that we're not at home in our bedroom. We're not going to be baking or hunting today, we're going to watch over a little girl, with whatever meager resources are available to us.

We allow ourselves a few minutes in bed together first, though - I'm touching his face, stroking his hair, our eyes locked.

Breakfast is served in the control room - there is no need to leave it unless you have to go the bathroom, or if you don't feel like sleeping in a chair. I brace myself for bad news, not knowing if Emilia has made it through the night. She seemed to have found a good hiding place last night, but you never know.

Haymitch meets me, his eyes bloodshot and his hair standing on end. His hands are shaking. I know he's made a huge effort to stay sober, to not drink on his watch over Emilia's life, and I'm grateful for his sacrifice. "How's everyone doing?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "Everyone's still alive. I guess the careers didn't feel like going hunting at night." I nod. I know they will have to be more careful this year than they usually are, because there are only three of them. Plus if I'm right about the well being the only water source, pretty soon they won't have to do anything at all, the other tributes are going to come to them. All they'll have to do is kill them off, one by one. They even have a bow and a very skilled archer, so there is no risk involved for them whatsoever.

I give Haymitch a bottle and send him off to bed. I don't know how much he sleeps, but if he passes out from drinking, I guess it's better than nothing.

Haymitch doesn't have anyone to hold him at night, to help him through the nightmares. I know he has them, too, I've seen it in his eyes. I see it even now, as he hesitates before leaving, how he's dreading going to sleep, even though he desperately needs to.

It's been 27 years, and he is still tormented by the nightmares. Is it going to be the same for Peeta and me, too?

I don't want to think about the answer to that question.

More and more victors arrive, and in the arena, the tributes are starting to wake up. Emilia must be starting to get really hungry, and opens one of her cans of tomatoes. I think it's a wise move - it will keep her strength up, hydrate her at least somewhat, and she'll start the morning with her brain fresh, unlike most of the other tributes. She can't afford to make any mistakes, and dehydrated brains tend to make just that.

We are starting to learn more about the remaining tributes. Now, in the light of day, we're starting to see who are actual contenders, and who are just targets.

The District 3 boy, Connor, is one of the oldest among the tributes, he's 18. The only other 18-year-olds are Twitch and Mend. He's also used to being in a city, and he looks pretty resourceful. He's working on building his own little fortress inside a building, with hidden traps and and alarm devices. Which is all good, if only he'd had any food or water - which he doesn't. I'm surprised his mentors didn't stress just how important finding a water source is - but with District 3 being the electronics district, most people work in factories, they don't know much about survival. Their food gets shipped in from other districts. Still, I think Beetee should've told him, surely he must know that even if no one can get into the building without being noticed, it won't help him when there's no water inside his little fortress.

The girl from District 5, Zenta, unexpectedly teams up with the girl from District 6, Rhona. They became friends during training, according to Titus. I hadn't noticed that, but it's not as if either of them attracts much attention, anyway. They are both 13, and they probably won't last long. At the moment they're just huddling in a basement, chasing off rats instead of trying to catch them and eat them, like they should've done. The rats are, aside from those two cans of tomatoes, the only edible things I've seen in the arena so far outside the Cornucopia.

Bendy, the boy from District 6, is adventurous enough to start exploring. He is the only one who looks visibly thirsty, although I'm sure the others must be starting to really feel it by now, too. He's walking through the streets, staying close to the walls, probably trying to find a river or a creek. He doesn't notice how the streets change around him. Houses quietly shift as the gamemakers touch their holograms, their hands hovering over their screens. I can't see the gamemakers, they are in a separate control room, but I've been there before briefly - I know what it looks like. Ultimately, they hold the lives of these teenagers in their hands. Bendy doesn't see the houses move, but we do, having access to cameras from several angles. One of the morphling victors emits a squeaking sound - she must have the same feeling I do, that dull feeling in my stomach that something is very wrong.

I'm ashamed to admit to myself that I don't even know her name, I just think of her as the female morphling. I disgust even myself, and decide to make it a point to talk to her later, after this immediate crisis is over.

Bendy is being led in one direction, and even he's starting to see it now, but he doesn't have any choice but to keep walking, because there's nothing to drink where he came from. The sun is shining mercilessly down on him now, he's clearly sweating. He might end up being the first dehydration victim, I think.

But he won't be.

He turns around a corner, and there's a collective gasp going through the victor group when we see what's waiting for him, before he does himself.

It's a rabid dog.

It's not a pack, because a pack would've torn him apart. It's not even very big, because if it were, it would've killed him.

Instead, it's a small one, a white miniature poodle. It looks deceptively innocent at first glance with its small size and curly fur fashionably groomed, but I've seen rabid dogs before, so I recognize the signs - the abnormal behavior, the alertness, the overt aggression. The broken teeth from chewing on objects. It's starting to foam around the mouth. Yet there is something **different** about it - it looks somehow crazier, even more vicious, than the other rabid dogs I've seen before. "I think they've tampered with it," I whisper to Peeta, who's staring at it, his eyes wide with fear.

Bendy screams when he sees the dog, which isn't really a good idea, letting the careers know where he is - not that it matters much, anyway. The problem he is facing now is worse. As soon as the dog sees him, it predictably attacks. I expect it to go after his feet or hands, but strangely it doesn't - it jumps, up, biting him in the neck. Bendy screams in terror now, and somehow finds a rock, pounding at the dog's head. He manages to bash its head in, but it's too late.

He's been bit, the blood is streaming down his neck and side. There is nowhere to clean the wound, to try to get the dog's salive containing the virus out of the wound, however futile the attempt may be. I also know from my mother that if you're bitten near the head, the symptoms will progress faster. The virus doesn't have to travel very far along the nerves to get to the brain when you're bit near the head.

This is surely no coincidence.

"Fuck them all," Johanna says out loud, and I guess that's what we all think inside. We're unfortunately used to seeing children kill other children in the Hunger Games, to die from dehydration and infections, but a rabies... It's a terrible way to die, and there is no knowing what he will do first, particularly if the Capitol have tampered with the virus, which I strongly suspect they have. Waiting a few days for the virus to reach his brain is probably too long for the incredibly short attention span of the Capitol residents, so I'm guessing they have modified the virus so something will happen soon.

This will get very, very ugly.

* * *

And it does.

It's quickly clear that the most imminent dangers in this arena are the lack of water - and Bendy.

The former does, as expected, make several tributes make bad decisions.

The first victim of the day is Connor. In the afternoon, after more than 24 hours without any water, he's clearly starting to feel the effects of dehydration. He's built himself a fortress, which would've been a good idea if he'd had a water source. He doesn't, so what the building has led to is in effect making the dehydration worse, as his activity level has been higher than many of the others, increasing his fluid loss. Connor is large and strong, and clearly pretty intelligent, but dehydration isn't helping him being rational. After a few hours of searching for water outside his fortress, he seems to come to the realization that there isn't any to be found.

So he tries something else. I'm surprised when he makes a white flag out of a branch from a burned-down tree and some white fabric he found in one of the abandoned houses.

He's approaching the three careers, wanting to join their alliance.

"No!" Beetee shouts to the screen, to no avail of course, as Connor can't hear him. Enobaria snickers behind him.

"What's in it for us?" Mend asks, as the three careers stand there side by side in front of the well. Behind them they have what Connor needs so desperately - water. He clearly looks weak, even though he's trying not to show it, and his lips are dry and bleeding.

"It's only the three of you," Connor says. "If you take me on your team, it will be easier to arrange shifts and raiding teams, hunting down the others." He's right, of course, but the question is whether or not the careers care. Taking Connor on the team would mean having a team member they know they can't trust. Will the benefits of Connor's proposal outweigh the downsides?

The answer turns out to be no.

Twitch, Kora and Mend discuss between themselves, quietly. Connor can't hear what they say, but of course we can, and I can see Beetee becoming progressively paler. The discussion ends with Twitch murmuring "Let's play a little with him first," and the others agree.

Beetee hides his face in his hands, and a tear is rolling down Wiress' cheek.

They know it's too late - even if Connor changes his mind now, there is no way he can get out of there alive. He was doomed as soon as he set foot on the open square in front of the Cornucopia.

"Okay, you're in," Kora says to Connor, and it sickens me to see just how relieved he is. Just how desperately he's looking at the well, it's almost as if he can hardly see the three careers in front of him. "But you do what we say, and one misstep and you're dead. Are we clear?"

Connor nods eagerly. "Can I have some water now?" He begs.

"Get down on your knees," Mend orders him. This is where I guess Connor should really start to understand that something is very wrong, but he doesn't seem to. It must be the dehydration. He obeys, sinking down on his knees. "Didn't your mother teach you to say please?" Mend continues, and Kora giggles.

"May I have some water please?" Connor asks, there is a desperate undertone in his voice now.

Mend raises an eyebrow. "No."

And with that, Kora and Twitch attack. In seconds they have overpowered him - Connor is strong, but he is outnumbered and dehydrated. A few minutes later, they have him all tied up, ropes are bound to his ankles and wrists, he's tied up to poles so that he's lying with his feet and arms outstretched, completely defenseless.

And then they play.

It takes them all night to kill him. At one point during this seemingly endless night, I think that at least the other tributes won't approach the Cornucopia, because surely they hear his screams. I know Emilia does, she's huddled in a corner, trying to block out the sounds. She doesn't get much sleep that night, and neither do we. Going to bed is pointless.

Beetee loses it at one point, and goes over to the career victors, screaming at Enobaria and Cashmere that they have to send their tributes a gift, a weapon of some sort, to signal to them that they just have to kill poor Connor, what they are doing to him is inhuman. Cashmere laughs in his face, but Enobaria actually looks a bit uneasy. Plutarch Heavensbee is there too at one point, I guess he's just visiting our control room when taking a break from the main control room, which is where they control the movement of the buildings, dangers, the flow of the game. I can't read any emotion in his face, but he does say to the District one and two victors that what their tributes are doing to Connor right now is at the very limit of what they will allow, for fear of losing viewers. Thankfully it's late, the children should be in bed by now.

Clearly even Capitol inhabitants have feelings, even if they don't care much about the lives of District three boys.

As dawn approaches, life ebbs out of Connor's tortured body. I think everyone, even Enobaria and Cashmere, is relieved when he finally dies. By now, my face is swollen from crying. I haven't slept in 24 hours, and I'm absolutely exhausted, but just thinking about going to sleep now is sickening. Peeta is sitting in a corner, hiding his face behind his knees. His hands, his knuckles white, are clutching his legs, one real and one prosthetic. Haymitch, who returned to the control room at around the time Connor was caught, and immediately started drinking when he saw what was going on, is dead drunk, and finally passes out.

He's the lucky one.

Johanna steals his bottle after Haymitch loses consciousness, and gulps down what's left, then complains that he didn't leave her enough.

With Haymitch passed out in his own vomit on the floor, and Peeta sitting unresponsive, frozen, in his corner, going to bed isn't an option now, anyway. I'm the only one who can watch over Emilia.

Emilia isn't in as bad a predicament as a few of the others. She opens her last can of canned tomatoes, and I know it's enough to keep her going for another day. She will have to move today, though, trying to find more sources of water.

The others are getting seriously dehydrated by now. It's only a question of time.

Zenta and Rhona, the two 13-year-old girls who have formed an alliance, have finally realized that they, too, have to move. They've been hiding in a basement until now, but the thirst is forcing them out in the open. They brave the streets, searching every house they deem safe enough to enter for food or water. They find some biscuits, and eagerly eat them, the first thing they've had to eat for two days. It does, however, make their thirst worse.

What they don't see in their dehydrated state, is that the houses are shifting. Again, someone is pulling the strings in the control room. The two girls are being led in one direction. At first I think they're being led to the Cornucopia, but then I realize it's in the opposite direction. Where are they going?

I look at the map with the blinking, color-coded lights with holograms of the tributes' faces that tell us which tribute is where.

Bendy.

We haven't seen him much after he was attacked by the dog. He's been hiding in a back street behind some rubble, all curled up like a wild dog. Only now, quite late in the morning, he has woken up. As he rises, the full extent of what the virus has done to him is clear.

He has been transformed into something of a monster. It's not just rabies, it's something else as well - I was right in that the Capitol must've genetically manipulated the virus somehow, because it's just too fast, too much. He has a mad, rabid light in his eyes, the muscles of his face are twitching, and saliva is running down his chin. Foam is starting to form in the corners of his mouth. He's moving differently, too - almost like an animal, a predator, but less smoothly. His movements are jerky somehow, not quite coordinated.

And he... sniffs the air. Like a dog. Like a monster mutt.

As I see the two lights moving in his direction, I know what he's smelled.

The two girls.

There is a desperate moment in which the District 5 and 6 mentors try to scramble possible sponsor money for gifts for them, only to realize that they don't have enough for any weapons, even if they pool their resources. As they fight about what other and more affordable items they might send to warn them, I know it's too late.

Titus, the leader of the District 6 victors, is in the worst position possible - two of his tributes are going up against each other, and it's clear that whatever happens, Bendy won't be the victor of the 76th Hunger Games. He's just been changed by the vicious virus to become a killing machine for the Capitol, but they will never allow him to win. He will take down as many tributes as the gamemakers deem necessary or fit, preferably in an entertaining fashion, making for a great TV show. Then they will have him murdered somehow. And Rhona, his other tribute, is completely defenseless against the monster that Bendy has become.

It waits for them behind the door of a house. It somehow knows they are going to go in there, searching in vain for water or food. Instead, what they find, is the rabid, mutant monster. It seems to have grown, it seems larger than Bendy was only yesterday. The lack of water doesn't seem to bother it.

I can hear Peeta whimper from the corner where he's still sitting, and I wish I had the courage or strength to hide, to avert my eyes, as he does. Instead, I'm frozen, unable to move, all I can do is watch the macabre scene that's playing out on the screen. The gamemakers have been helpful enough to play this on full-screen, temporarily making us unable to follow the other remaining tributes. They are far away from each other at this point anyway, so it doesn't matter, all that's taking place right now is the heartbreaking and meaningless murder of two helpless girls.

I wonder what it must feel like for Bendy's parents. Watching what he has become. It must be even worse than for Zenta and Rhona's families.

It - calling it Bendy seems inappropriate now, as there doesn't seem to be much of Bendy left - is as vicious as the careers were in the night, in its own, sick way.

The boy has been turned into an animal. It's attacking with its nails, which seem longer and more claw-like than they were yesterday, but mostly with his teeth. It goes after Zenta first, it's just a hazy being of gray and red and black as it attacks her, tearing out her throat. It leaves Zenta lying on the floor, convulsing, life pulsing out of her through the mess that used to be her throat and neck. Rhona screams her head off, scrambling upstairs with the monster following right behind her. She's looking for something to defend herself with, anything, but can't find it. The monster is covered in Zenta's blood, snarling, blood mixed with saliva is dribbling down his face and chest.

And then she's trapped. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to go. She tries to open a window, but it turns out to be nailed shut, which may or may not be a coincidence.

Her end is violent, bloody, unfortunately far less efficient than Zenta's, and utterly disgusting to watch. Even Enobaria is silent now, the smile gone from her lips.

Haymitch regains consciousness just in time to see her die, and when he vomits, I'm not sure if it's from the drinking, from what he's seeing on the screen or both. Peeta is the only one who hasn't watched it, he's still sitting in the corner, his body shaking. I know he's heard it all, and it's still not much better for him that it is for the rest of us, although we've seen every gory detail and he hasn't.

"They are serious this year, aren't they?" Enobaria whispers when it's over, but no one answers her.

And then it gets worse still, because it's time for the interviews with the survivors' families and friends. This traditionally takes place when there are eight tributes left, but they lost more than that now in the last few minutes. We know that the remaining tributes will be safe for the next two hours, as the gamemakers will make sure there are no confrontations or murders while the interviews are being aired.

Some interviews are almost all too familiar, such as the interviews with the career tributes' parents. They are, predictably, all very proud of their son or daughter, and is confident that he or she will win the 76th Hunger Games. They don't work through the districts chronologically this year, though, bypassing Bendy's parents, and I'm momentarily relieved. Moving on to the other districts, it's soon Emilia's parents' and friends' turn. I recognize her mother from the reaping - she looks pale and drained, undoubtedly she hasn't gotten much sleep lately. She tells stories about her daughter, none of which are particularly interesting, and they certainly don't make Emilia sound like a ruthless killer, or even a survivor. Her father doesn't say much. As I watch him, with his gray, hard eyes, I wonder how he could lay his hands on his little, innocent daughter. I hate him for it.

And just when I think they are done, they go back to District six - to Bendy's parents. Beetee and Wiress are holding each other now, trying to comfort each other as they watch the poor, devastated parents. They are being interviewed on live TV, unlike the other parents, who were clearly taped in advance, and there is no doubt the gamemakers have done this just to make sure that they could see the most recent development in their son's behavior since he was attacked by the rabid poodle. It's one of the most heartbreaking things I've ever seen - his mother can't stop crying, it's almost impossible to get a coherent sentence out of her. His father tries, he really does, but all he can say, is that he hopes there is a cure for the virus, that the doctors in the Capitol who know so much and have so many resources can save his son if he wins the Hunger Games.

I know that Bendy will never win the Hunger Games. That he's just a tool for the gamemakers, they'll dispose of him as soon as he has played his part.

I walk over to Peeta, sitting down next to him, hiding my face against his shoulder. "I hate them. I hate them. I hate them." Peeta whispers, over and over again, and I want to tell him to be silent, that surely someone can hear what he's saying and we should be careful, but I can't bring myself to. Because I feel the same way, and judging from the looks on the faces of the other victors, we're not alone. I'm beyond caring what the Capitol thinks of us right now.

The interviews are over, and we're back to the regular show. Emilia is back in her safe house, getting ready for yet another long, lonely night. She doesn't have any cans left now, and I know her situation tomorrow will be very, very difficult, although not as bad as that of the few other surviving tributes. Aside from the victors, of course, who are playing strip poker by the Cornucopia.

Hopefully that will provide enough entertainment for the gamemakers tonight, without any more killings. They have very few tributes left now, and I'm guessing they'll want to prolong the games with a few more days, if not more - at least I really hope they will, because that would mean that they have to provide some sources of water for the tributes. A few of the other tributes are getting water from their sponsors now, there doesn't seem to be any point in saving the money for later, and I know I'll have to ask Haymitch that we do the same for Emilia tomorrow morning. Right now, water is even more important than weapons.

Haymitch sits down next to us as well, handing me a bottle and some pills.

"Take this," he says. I frown at him. "I'm serious," he says. "You two need to sleep, you look beat. You need your strength for tomorrow. After the show we just saw, there is now way either of you will get any sleep without aid from chemicals - believe me."

I look down at the pills in my hands, and know he's right.

"Don't take more than two pills, Katniss, or you'll be unconscious all day tomorrow. Peeta, you can take three, you're much larger than Katniss. Swallow them down with some liquor, say a quick prayer and hope for a dreamless night."

I close my eyes, and wonder if I will ever have another dreamless night in my life.


	14. Chapter 14: A silver parachute

**Chapter 14: A silver parachute**

When I wake up, the world is spinning. I have to blink several times until the room gets into focus, at least somewhat, and I see Peeta sitting on the edge of the bed. "Peeta?" I whisper hoarsely. He turns around, looking at me. His eyes are glazed over, dull.

"Did you get any sleep, Katniss?" He lies down next to me, stroking my hair.

Did I? I don't know. "I think so."

"Nightmares?"

I close my eyes, and as soon as I do, I see them. Behind my eyelids.

Dead children.

"Yes." I open my eyes again, and meet his blue ones.

"Me too."

"How are we going to get through this, Peeta?"

"I don't know," he whispers, his lips in my hair.

The full truth about why Haymitch is an alcoholic is starting to dawn on me. He's suffered through this 27 times. This is only our second Games as mentors, and we're already cracking.

Peeta takes a shower, but I don't think I can do it. I don't dare to in my semi-drugged state, I'm afraid I'll slip and fall and break something. Or suddenly try to drown myself in the bath tub, who knows. The others just have to overlook my greasy hair, I just hope I don't actually smell bad. It takes us twice as long to get to the control room as usual, I keep stumbling into things, and Peeta still seems distant, like he's not quite able to focus on where we are and where we are going.

"We can't accept any more pills from Haymitch. Ever." I tell Peeta, although a part of me desperately wants to, because after all, I did get **some** sleep. How am I going to get any sleep tonight without the pills and the alcohol? I'm already dreading it. The pills may be dulling my emotions and everything that I am, but when the feelings I have are all nightmares, whether awake or asleep, having them dulled is perhaps not such a bad thing after all.

"I know," Peeta mumbles next to me.

* * *

I'm in a haze the first part of the day. Haymitch mocks me for not being able to hold my drink (or my pills), and I yell terrible things at him. Afterwards, I feel ashamed - ashamed for yelling at Haymitch when he's only trying to help, even if it doesn't do us any good, and ashamed to be losing it in front of all the other victors. I still have a living, breathing tribute in the arena, I can't afford to show any weakness.

There are only seven tributes left. There are the three careers - Twitch and Kora from District one, and Mend from District two. I wonder what will happen when there is only the three of them left? That's the most likely scenario, after all. Will Twitch and Kora team up against Mend? Or does Mend have an alliance with either Twitch or Kora, to take down one so the other doesn't have to kill anyone from their own district? Only time will tell. Both of these strategies have been used in the past, multiple times.

There is also, of course, poor Bendy. He doesn't look better than he did yesterday, but at least he doesn't seem any worse. Dehydration doesn't seem to bother the monster, the vicious mutt animal that he is now. I wonder if the modified virus has somehow made him immune to it, or if he will just suddenly pass out from the dehydration in the end?

Aton from District 7 has largely gone under the radar so far, but there are so few tributes left now that I know his time will come soon, probably today. The gamemakers haven't paid him much attention, but he's getting dehydrated, and he'll have to move soon. He's gotten some water from his mentors, but I can tell from the desperation in Johanna's eyes that there's not much money left. I just checked the price list of the day, and the price of water has soared - to a level that will very soon be beyond what we have available, even after the quite sizable donations we got from the other districts.

Sarr from District 10, the demi-god, is looking a lot less god-ish now - he's dirty, sweaty and scared. His looks have earned a lot of sponsor money, so he's gotten both water and a weapon - a long, scary-looking knife. But does he know how to use it? I'm not so sure about that.

And then there's Emilia, our Seam girl and underdog. As soon as the drugs have cleared enough for me to feel capable of thinking a more or less coherent thought, I call for a quick, hushed strategy meeting with Peeta and Haymitch. "We're running out of time," I say, handing them the price list of the day. "If we're going to send her any sponsor gifts, it should be now, today, before it's too late."

"What do you suggest?" Haymitch asks.

"At this point, what she really needs is water, and possibly some food if we can afford it. Unless... Unless there's something we're missing here." I think back at my own Hunger Games, when Haymitch didn't send me water when I was severely dehydrated myself, because he knew there was water nearby.

"Do you think there's water in the arena somewhere? I mean, she did find those cans of tomatoes... It would be a strange coincidence if they are the only sorces of fluid in the entire arena, right?" Peeta says what I've been thinking all along.

I nod. "Yeah. I'm just thinking that if there are really no other sources of fluid in the arena, then it's a bold move of the gamemakers. Perhaps too bold. Because it would mean that the non-career tributes get desperate pretty quickly, they are forced to either attack the careers at the Cornucopia or simply die quietly in a corner of dehydration. Both of which happen pretty quickly, in two or three days, tops, which doesn't make for a good TV show. The Capitol has been looking forward to this for a year, after all, and they must've spent a fortune building that arena. Even if they turn it into a Hunger Games amusement park afterwards, complete with memorial sightseeing tours, I think they'd want to get more entertainment back from their investment than they've gotten so far."

In the background I see that both Aton and Sarr each get a bottle of water from their mentors. I think Johanna must be out of sponsor money now.

Haymitch closes his eyes. "It's a gamble. And Emilia's life is at stake here." We all know that getting through this day is crucial - someone has to die today, possibly more than one, but certainly not all but one. The Games will have to go on for a few more days.

But while we try to agree, unsuccessfully, Emilia takes her destiny into her own hands. She's ventured outside again, and I can see from the dryness of her lips and the dullness in her eyes, deep in her skull now, that she's getting dehydrated. We can't wait much longer.

There **is** more to Emilia than meets the eye. She locates the District one cathedral that is still standing, and carefully climbs up to the very top of the one remaining bell tower to get a good view of the arena. She seems to be looking for something, though I'm not quite sure what. She makes very sure not to be visible to the careers at the Cornucopia, which is in clear view of the cathedral tower. Twitch and Kora are out hunting for tributes, but she doesn't know that, although I guess she understands that she needs to be very careful, there are hidden dangers lurking everywhere. Finally, she seems satisfied, and runs off. She seems determined, she knows where to go.

At first I'm confused - where is she going? And then it dawns on me.

She's going to the river.

"Smart girl", Haymitch murmurs.

The river is dried out, but she could see that from the cathedral. Why is she still going there?

Emilia spends a good half an hour in a hiding place by the river, observing it closely for any kind of movement. I know from the blips on the map that there aren't any tributes anywhere near her at the moment. Finally, she sneaks down to the river. There is no water, not even a tiny, muddy puddle. She starts digging with her bare hands. Slowly and tentatively at first, then desperately. Her nails are torn, her hands start bleeding. She's not looking around anymore, if the careers were to show up, she'd be dead.

But she's all alone.

I'm about to open my mouth and say to Haymitch that we have to send her some water NOW, I just can't stand watching this, watch her desperation - when something happens.

From the depth of her hole, a clear, pure stream of water appears. Emilia starts crying, quickly lapping up as much water as she can. She scrambles to fill her two empty cans with water, she drinks as if she never thought she'd see water again.

She probably didn't.

A few victors are actually applauding her - Beetee, Chaff and Mag. Annie smiles happily. "Well done," she whispers in my ear as she passes me on her way to the lunch table.

"I think it's time for a gift now," Haymitch says to us. His shaking index finger points at a line near the bottom of the page. "Let's put all our eggs in one basket."

A few minutes later, Emilia gets a silver parachute with a knife.

* * *

The careers are on the move. This time it's Twitch and Mend, Kora is staying by the Cornucopia. They end up cornering Aton, and two arrows later, the sound of yet another cannon can be heard over the arena. The number of players is decreasing rapidly, and the gamemakers are making sure it doesn't go down too rapidly - it's clear that they are steering Bendy away from the two careers. I don't know if it's to protect the careers, or if it's to keep their rabid creature safe from Mend's arrows so that he can kill someone else later, but the result is the same, anyway. The gamemakers are in control, they will make sure they get their perfect victor. The three careers are all obvious contestants, as well as Sarr - but I'm afraid his good looks won't be enough to save him, because he hasn't made a particularly good figure in the arena. He seems confused and scared, not that I can blame him, but it's not a good overall strategy to win the audience's hearts, even if you do look absolutely fantastic. Bendy obviously won't become a victor, and I'm sure the gamemakers never intended Emilia to win, either. She's basically just someone who's left, who's somehow ended up surviving this far.

When are the viewers going to get tired of watching the same thing happen day after day - two careers going after the other tributes? Something has to happen soon. As we watch recaps of the day, and watch Emilia as she's looking up at the faces of dead children in the sky at night, I wonder if she truly has a chance. I know the games are rigged, but can she manipulate the odds so that they will suddenly be in her favor?

A long, nearly sleepless night later, I'm pleased to see that the fluids must've done Emilia good. She's found some empty bottles, and she's filling them with water, enough for a day or perhaps two. This means she can safely leave the river, and stay away for quite some time.

"Why is she leaving the waterhole?" Peeta asks worriedly, as she starts walking in the opposite direction of where we had expected her to go - she's going **towards** the Cornucopia, not away from it.

Johanna, pale and with dark rings underneath her eyes, whispers: "She has a plan." Then she winks at me. And I know that Johanna understands Emilia better than any of us. I make a sudden decision.

"I need some fresh air - want to come, Johanna?"

"Sure." She shrugs, trying not to seem too interested.

Haymitch, not having had any sleep in more than 24 hours, is too drunk and tired to notice that we leave, but Peeta looks surprised, to say the least. It's not as if I've ever made an effort to talk privately or even spend time with Johanna alone before. She usually intimidates me too much. But this is no ordinary day.

We go up to the roof, and the fresh breeze is just what I need. I close my eyes and allow myself to enjoy the fresh air and the feel of the sun on my skin, despite the horror of the last few days, even if it's only for a few moments. When I open my eyes again, I half expect Johanna to be naked, but thankfully she's still dressed.

"So why are you talking to me all of a sudden?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow. "Are you after my money again?"

"I would be if I thought you had any left."

She sighs. "And I'd give it to you if I did, now that Aton is... dead." There are actually tears in her eyes now. "But we spent it all on that bottle of water. We should've been as smart as you were - knowing that there would be water in the arena somewhere. But I guess he wouldn't have found it, anyway." I know she's right. Aton never stood a chance, not the way Emilia does. She has something he hadn't.

"She's like you, isn't she?" This is the real reason I wanted to talk to Johanna in private.

Johanna smiles, a sly grin. "Yeah. I knew it as soon as I saw her."

"How?"

"It takes one to know one."

"Do you think the gamemakers know?" If they do, it could be very dangerous for her.

Johanna shrugs. "Perhaps. I don't know if they have fully noticed her yet, but there aren't that many tributes left now, so I guess it's only a question of time before they turn their rabid mutt on her."

I know Johanna is right. "What can we do to help her? How does she think?"

Johanna is standing very close to me now, her voice barely audible. I can only hope that the wind up here will muffle our words, as the roof is surely tapped. "You can't help her. Not really. This is something she has to do all on her own. I'm quite sure that she has a plan, or that she'll make one, but I'm not sure what she will do. You've given her **hope** - by sending her that knife. It's a symbol as much as a weapon - by sending it, you've told her that you not only want her to survive, you want her to **win**, and that you actually think she can do it." I nod, although I'm not really sure if we thought that far when we sent her that knife - we just wanted her to have a means of self-defense, now that she wasn't in immediate danger of dying from dehydration, and a knife was the only weapon we could afford on the list of sponsor gifts. That's what I belived at the time, anyway, but perhaps Haymitch thought of this all along. "I'll talk to the other victors, try convince them to transfer some money to you. I'm guessing they are all rooting for either Emilia or Sarr anyway, and frankly, Sarr isn't looking quite so hot anymore."

"Thank you," I whisper.

Johanna shakes my hand. "Team?"

"Team," I confirm.

* * *

As the evening sun is setting over the arena, it's clear that Bendy's role in the Hunger Games has been played out. As he's half-crawling, half-walking down a street, a house suddenly crumbles and falls over him, crushing his poor, virus-ridden body underneath tons of brick and mortar. I sigh a sigh of relief - for Emilia, but also for himself and his parents. At least his suffering is over.

Haymitch murmurs something about the Capitol viewers finding his viciousness and his killings a bit too much, even for their bloody tastes, and I'm guessing this has prompted them to get rid of him - being in the favor of sponsors is very important, even if you're a gamemaker.

Emilia has spent the better part of the day just sneaking from building from building. At first I think that she's looking for food, but it turns out she isn't. She's a Seam girl, she can go a few days without food, even though her stomach must be growling by now. Johanna managed to get us some money from Districts five and six, and we consider buying her some food for it, but in the end we settle on saving it for tomorrow. I think we all have a nagging suspicion that tomorrow will be the last day of the Hunger Games - for better or for worse.

We see that Emilia discovers the fallen house, hiding the remains of Bendy. She can't know that he's under there, of course, but she still seems to spend a long time, longer than expected, studying the debris.

In the end, she returns to a dead-end street she inspected earlier in the day, it's more of a back alley, really. It's full of debris and hard to maneuvre, and I mutter: "Get out of there, Emilia!" because I know just how dangerous it is to get caught in a corner with nowhere to run. The facade of one of the buildings is covered by scaffolding - it looks like it's almost about to fall down, it's black from soot like the houses. Still, she climbs the scaffold.

There's a faint smile on Johanna's lips as she watches Emilia on the screen - she's carrying bricks, one by one. Some of them from the street, but most of the bricks she gets from inside the windows, carrying them through the shattered, open windows out onto the scaffold. She works very carefully, so she doesn't make any noise or destabilize the scaffold. She works on this most of the night, aided by the full moon. Several times, the scaffold makes noises, loud and terrible, as it sways when she's walking on it, and every time I think that this is it - she's going to be buried in a huge heap of rubble. This is how she's going to die, and it's at least better than being bitten by a rabid, mutt boy, or being tortured by the careers.

But it doesn't fall.

Finally, when it's almost morning, she lies down in a corner of the building and falls asleep.

* * *

The next morning, neither Haymitch, Peeta, Johanna nor I have gotten any sleep at all. I know we should, that if we keep going much longer, we won't be of any use to Emilia at all. But the Games can't last much longer, and I don't know what scares me more - not being there when Emilia might need me, or facing the nightmares I'm sure will come. I won't accept Haymitch's pills anymore, and I also turn down morphling, which I'm graciously offered by one of the District six morphlings - ashamedly, I learn that her name is Mora.

Mend and Twitch are hunting again. They actually do refer to it as hunting, as if the other tributes are only animals to them. Perhaps even less, come to think how they tortured Connor to death - I don't think they'd do that to an animal. They have a fight over who gets to go, and Kora loses - she's furious, because she was, as she put it, "stuck by the Cornucopia like some kind of babysitter" the day before, too, but in the end, she accepts staying behind.

We watch the screen with the small lights - and to my horror, I realize that four of them are almost in the same location. The two hunting careers, Emilia and Sarr. Cameras that only we and the Gamemakers can see, not available the general Capitol audience, clearly show that houses are moving in order to make this happen. The careers are being steered in Sarr's direction. He has just woken up, and he's clearly dehydrated and very hungry. There's not much left of the hunk that drove the Capitol girls wild just a week ago - he's now starving, scared, dirty and it looks like he's about to give up. He's on the move in the streets, and he's starting to get reckless. He doesn't look around the corners the way he should, he doesn't listen as carefully as he would have done if he'd been able to think clearly.

My hand finds Peeta's as we see that the inevitable happens: Sarr turns around a corner, and finds himself face to face with Mend and Twitch. We watch as they catch him, and crush his skull with some bricks. It takes longer than I thought, but it looks like they aren't really trying all that hard. As we can hear the cannon, they leave him lying there in the dust, his body unharmed but his head an unrecognizable ruin of tissue and broken bone and blood.

"I guess it's just the little girl left now," Cashmere laughs, looking at us as we stand there, hand in hand. United. I can't bring myself to meet her eyes. She didn't see much of what Emilia did last night, they haven't paid much attention to her. I'm sure the Gamemakers know what she's been doing, but I'm guessing she hasn't been on the top of their list of priorities.

And therein lies her only chance.

We see on the screen that she's heard the careers, that she's heard Sarr's wild screams, followed by the wet, horribly muffled thuds of the bricks crushing his skull. They are very close, they are on the street that her blind-end street opens onto, just a few hundred yards away from her.

"Come on," Johanna murmurs under her breath, and I can see that even Haymitch has stopped drinking.

Emilia sneaks down the alley, looks very carefully around a corner - and sees the careers. She doesn't look scared, or upset, or any of the emotions I had perhaps expected from her - she just observes them, calmly. Then she takes a deep breath, and walks out onto the main street.

She turns out to be a terrific actress, because she pretends like it's an accident. That she didn't know they were there. She squeals, loudly, like a terrified child, and seems absolutely frozen, which allows the careers to get quite close to her. Finally, just when I think it's too late, she turns and runs, still acting like a terrified child, down the blind-end, narrow street. The careers are laughing behind her, mocking her for her stupidity when they see that there's no escape route. She's pressed against the wall at the back of the street now, she's so tiny and thin. The two huge careers, muscular and well-fed, confident of their victory, walk towards her, almost casually.

"What do you think we should do with her before we kill her, Mend?" Twitch asks his ally, laughing, as they approach her.

"She's my kill. But you can take her first, if you like."

"Deal," Twitch says, to my disgust he's already opening the zipper of his jeans.

"Well, good luck with that," Emilia answers, and all of a sudden, the scared child is gone. She grins at them, and Mend and Twitch look startled for a split second. Then she bends down, and finds the end of a rope, which was hidden in the dust. She tugs it, and then it's as if realization dawns on them - too late. The scaffold falls over them as they scream in terror, but their screams end abruptly.

After the noise dies down, all that can be heard is two cannonshots in the sky.

Emilia wipes away the dust from her face and leaves as if nothing's happened, climbing over the large pile of rubble hiding two broken bodies.

* * *

**Life is even crazier than usual, plus I'll be abroad this weekend (yay!), so this will be the one and only update this week. There is much more to come, though, so don't worry! **

**TOM is almost at 200 follows! That's so amazing! And thank you so much to everyone who's reviewing and sending me PMs, I really appreciate that you're taking the time to tell me what you think of my story. 3 It really keeps me writing! So keep the reviews coming! **


	15. Chapter 15: The End

_**I said I wouldn't post another chapter this week, but to celebrate that The Other Mockingjay has reached more than 200(!) followers, you'll get another one anyway! The next big milestone is 200 reviews - keep the reviews coming, and we'll get there very soon! :) I love reading what you think, it means so much to me that you take the time to write a few words after reading. Thank you so much, everyone!**_

_**Next week is a very exciting week on Tumblr! Prompts in Panem starts on Monday (not sure if I will participate yet, we'll see, but Seven Deadly Sins sounds so exciting!), plus the nomination process for The Everlark Smut Awards starts! Yay! Go check them both out!**_

_**Okay, so at the end of Chapter 15, there were only two tributes left - Emilia and Kora. As you can see from the title of this chapter, you will finallly find out who the victor of the 76th Hunger Games is in this chapter - but don't worry, it's not the end of the story, there is much more to come. **_

* * *

**Chapter 16: The end**

The tension in the control room is palpable. We all know that this is it, this is the end. Today is the last day of the 76th Hunger Games.

There are hurried, desperate discussions over at the career corner. Meanwhile, other victors from non- career districts are coming over to us. I didn't realize just how deep the divide between District one and two and the other districts is. Now that it's down to Kora or Emilia, it's clear where their loyalities lie. All the money that was denied us earlier is now suddenly donated to Emilia, the victors loosely form a circle around us as Haymitch does some frantic counting while scanning the revised - and exorbitantly expensive - list of possible gifts to send her. What will help her now, in the final battle against Kora?

Kora has the upper hand. She has all the weapons she would ever need. She's incredibly good at throwing knives, which I'm almost certain will be her preferred method of killing Emilia - it will keep her at a relatively safe distance from the younger, smaller girl.

Because I know that now, after hearing the two cannonshots, she has realized that something went wrong with their original plan. She can do the math - there are only two tributes left now, and it's down to herself and someone else. At least one of the other careers is dead, but she doesn't know who's coming back for her. She knows there is a final battle coming very soon, but she doesn't know against whom it will be. Alle she knows is that whoever it is, she has an enormous advantage, controlling all the weapons at the Cornucopia. The large open square surrounding it also means that she will see an attacker early on, it will be very hard to surprise her.

But the fact that Kora doesn't know who's coming for her, is her greatest weakness.

Because it could be Mend, the archer. He could kill her from a much greater distance than her knives will ever reach, however good she is. It's clear that's what she's thinking, too, because she's hiding inside the Cornucopia. It doesn't provide perfect shelter, but it's much better than nothing, hiding her from view and making sure that she won't be shot from most, but not all, angles. She hides behind some sandbags, which give her even better cover.

Meanwhile, Emilia the street cat is back. She moves stealthily, you can practically see her blend in with the walls. Looking directly into what she has cleverly realized is a hidden camera inside a streetlight, she whispers: "If you have any sponsor money left, now's the time to get me something."

"I LOVE this chick," Johanna shouts, earning herself ugly stares from the careers. Enobaria hisses, baring her pointed teeth at the other woman.

All thoughts of tiredness and nightmares are gone now, the adrenaline surge is making me think clearly for the first time in days.

Emilia is smart. She's a survivor. That's the most powerful weapon she has against the older, stronger and much better equipped and trained girl she's about to face.

"What do you think, Haymitch?" I say quietly, not wanting the careers to hear me. "What should we send her, what do you think she has planned for Kora?"

"She probably doesn't have a plan yet," Johanna murmurs. "She's going to try to get a clear view of the Cornucopia, to figure out what she's up against. But she shouldn't take too long - tonight, Kora will see Twitch and Mend's faces in the sky." Neither of us is worried about her fearing Twitch, because we know that from a distance, Mend would undoubtedly be the most dangerous tribute to face, and Mend is the one Kora is hiding from behind the sandbags.

But there's no way she's expecting the person returning to the Cornucopia to be Emilia.

Johanna is right. Emilia sneaks up on the roof of one of the houses facing the square, getting a good view of the area. She lies there for a long time, scanning the square, all the items there, the well. She doesn't see Kora from that angle, though. Emilia takes a little break, emptying a bottle of water. She must be very hungry now, but at least she makes sure she's not dehydrated.

She's a Seam kid. She's used to being hungry.

Then she sneaks up from another angle, and finally she sees Kora, hiding. Kora has, quite cleverly, set up two mirrors, showing her the blind zone behind the Cornucopia, which she can't see from her hiding place. It shows her quite a lot, at least, but there must still be blind spots she can't follow properly. That's the price she has to pay to be safer from Mend's deadly arrows.

Which are right now buried under tons of bricks and mortar.

"We really can't afford much," Haymitch says, exasparated. "There are no weapons within our price range, all we can send her is some food. And if we do, the parachute is going to tip off Kora, she'll know where her enemy is."

Emilia has taken in the situation now, and is moving away from the square, a few streets down. At first I don't understand what she's doing, but then I realize that she must've thought about silver parachutes, too, because she says: "I'm staying here for ten minutes, Haymitch. If you have anything to send me, do it here. Then I'm going for her."

"What do you think, Peeta?" Haymitch says, hurriedly, they're still going through the list. "What do you think will help her?"

"I'm glad we sent her that knife when we could, because we just can't afford any weapons with these prices," Peeta sighs. "They do look very expensive, though. Were the weapons this expensive last year on the final day of the Games?" I shake my head slowly.

I don't think that's a coincidence.

"Send her some bread from District 12," Peeta says confidently, pointing his finger at a line on the price list.

"Bread?" I moan. "What good is that going to do?"

"We get her blood suger up, give her some extra strength. And even more importantly, we give her hope. We tell her that everyone in the district believes in her." We all know that every single person in District 12 is watching her right now.

Leave it to the baker to know the importance and symbolics of a loaf of bread.

"Okay," Haymitch agrees. "It's the best we can do, under the circumstances."

And so it is decided. We do this last thing for her as mentors - the rest is up to herself, her own strength and intelligence.

Two minutes later, a silver parachute descends next to Emilia. If she's disappointed when she opens the parcel and sees that it's only bread, she doesn't show it. She sits down, breaks the bread in two and eagerly takes in the wonderful scent of freshly baked bread. Then she eats it, more slowly than I think I could've if I hadn't been eating in days, but she's smart. She can't get sick, not now. There is something almost religious about how she eats the bread, piece by piece, it's almost like she worships it.

She has been hungry most of her life, after all.

The control room is eerily silent, no one says a word. Everyone's just standing there, in two groups, one smaller and one larger, staring at the screen on the wall. It's divided in two now - one part for Emilia, one for Kora. I send the careers a stolen look. They look confident.

Too confident.

I meet Haymitch's eyes, and I can tell he's noticed the same thing.

"I don't like this," he whispers, nearly inaudibly, in my ear. I cling to Peeta's hand, as he clings to mine. Unconsciously, I grab Haymitch's hand, too. He doesn't have anyone to hold on to but us. He squeezes my hand, I think he's grateful.

Emilia sneaks back to the square, where she finds a place to hide from which she can have a good overview of the Cornucopia. She can't see Kora from that angle, though. I have a distinct feeling that her choice of hiding place isn't a coincidence - she wants to be in Kora's blind zone. Has she seen the mirrors from the large distance, though? Does she know that approaching Kora from that angle isn't safe, either?

"I think she knows about the mirrors," Haymitch murmurs. We don't know if it matters if the careers hear us - probably not - but we can't take that chance. "She probably saw the sun reflected in them." Still, it's almost impossible to know for her if there are any blind zones - and in particular where they are, if they do in fact exist. Even for us, who's had many close-ups of Kora's mirror set-up, it's impossible to be determine where the blind zones are.

And why is she waiting? After two hours, we're starting to be worn down. What is she waiting for?

There's a twinkle in Johanna's eyes. "Watch," she mouths, nodding towards the screen. And as I do, I see what she means - this is what Emilia has been waiting for.

The sunset.

When the sun reaches a particular angle, the sun is reflected in the mirrors, hopefully blinding Kora and making it impossible to see Emilia. It's still a huge risk, I can't help wondering if she'd be better off waiting for the darkness - but then again, that's a gamble, too. There is no way for her to know when or if Kora will be asleep. Plus right now, Kora thinks that Mend or Twitch is coming for her, not Emilia.

And we've learned by now that Emilia is fast. There is no hesitation, it's clear that it's now or never. She's left her bottles behind, all she's carrying now is her knife. She sprints across the square, and there is finally unrest among the victors - gasps, hushed whispers, a stifled cry. Only the careers are silent.

Kora isn't moving. She hasn't noticed.

Emilia is approaching the Cornucopia fast, I'm guessing she's planning to jump on top of it, then ambush Kora from above. She only has one knife, and I don't know how good she might be at throwing it. I do know that Kora has a number of knives, and her aim is excellent. Emilia needs to surprise Kora, and she'll only get one opportunity to take her down.

But then it happens.

A parachute is coming - and it's coming down much faster than the others have so far. Whatever's attached to it must be very heavy.

"What the..." Haymitch begins, and Peeta's fingers are now squeezing so hard around mine that it hurts. I'm sure my fingernails are digging into his palm, too.

The sudden arrival of the parachute means Kora gets out of the Cornucopia - which again means she sees Emilia approaching - fast. "Oh no..." I whisper, and Peeta makes a strangled sound next to me. This wasn't part of Emilia's plan.

For one terrible second I think Kora is going to reach to her knife belt and take up a knife, but she doesn't. She running towards the parachute instead. Emilia has changed course, she's not going for the Cornucopia anymore, instead she's heading straight for Kora. It's a race against time, both of them seem lightening fast.

Then Kora shouts something triumphantly, I can't make out quite what she says. She gets up from her crouching position by the parachute, which just landed. As she turns around, we can all see what she got from her sponsors. It takes my brain a second or two to realize what it is, because the color is all wrong. It's white as snow, and the unfamiliar color of the otherwise easily recognizable object makes it hard to identify.

I feel all the blood drain from my face.

It's a machine gun.

It seems like everything is happening in slow motion from this point on. All I can think is: "How on earth could they afford something like this? At this point of the Games?" It wasn't even on the list of sponsor gifts. Handguns have never been a part of the Hunger Games, and automatic weapons are simply unheard of. This very moment must be the biggest shock in the history of the Hunger Games.

But looking at it, there is no question where the machine gun comes from.

Emilia could never be allowed to win. Winning was never an option for her.

I see the first bullets tear into her torso, and tiny droplets of blood spray into the air around her, almost like a waterfall, they are being reflected by the evening sun. Her tiny body is being thrown backwards from the impact, flying through the air. And still I can't even hear the sounds of the machine gun.

But then my brain finally registers them, and it's relentless, the sound of every single bullet is so high it feels like it's almost tearing into my own skull. I want to look away, but I feel I'm unable to. Emilia's tiny body hits the ground, even through the bullets I can clearly hear a cannon going off, and I know it's over. But still Kora doesn't stop. She keeps shooting, she's screaming something I can't hear, screaming off the top of her lungs, her eyes are wild.

She looks like she's enjoying it.

Emilia's body is soon almost unrecognizable, it's been reduced to just... flesh.

Finally, Kora's magazine is empty. The Head Gamemaker's voice resonates through the air - in the arena, in the control room, all over Panem: "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winner of the 76th annual Hunger Games - Kora Lennen!"

I fall to my knees on the floor.


	16. Chapter 16: On fire

_**Two hundred reviews! Wow! Thank you so much, everyone! Keep the reviews coming, please, I love to hear what you think!**_

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* * *

**Chapter 16: On fire**

The next thing I remember is waking up in our bed. Peeta is lying next to me, I'm not sure if he's sleeping or if he's been knocked unconscious from drugs.

Cinna is sitting in the big, plush armchair in the corner, watching over us.

I sit up in bed, finding to my surprise that I'm only dressed in an old t-shirt, and I blink my eyes, trying to focus on Cinna, and failing miserably. My head is spinning - they must've given me some kind of Capitol drug again.

What happened?

As I try to get out of bed, the memory of Emilia's tiny body being mutilated by bullets comes rushing back. It's an almost physical reaction, it feels like someone's throwing a rock at my skull.

I fall out of the bed and vomit on the floor.

An avox immediately comes to clean up the mess, I didn't even notice her, she was waiting in the shadow by the door. A confused part of me wants to help her clean up, I feel so ashamed to have anyone do this, but my body won't cooperate. Cinna lifts me up in his strong arms, and carries me not to the bed, but to the chair where he was sitting. Then he sits down, with me in his lap, and I break down in his arms, crying.

He rocks me like a little child while I sob violently. I try to speak a few times, but I'm unable to produce a coherent sentence, so I just cry again.

In the end, I fall asleep in his arms.

* * *

The next time I wake up, the sun tells me it's early afternoon.

Where am I?

I'm held by someone, but it doesn't smell like Peeta. It doesn't smell of sunshine and cinnamon and soap. It must be a man, though, it smells like a man's aftershave. I try to focus on the sleeping face just above my head, and realize it's Cinna.

"Hey."

Someone else is talking.

Peeta.

I turn my head, and see Peeta sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at us. He looks about as bad as I feel, tired and pale, but his face is unreadable.

What is he thinking?

"I'm..." I can't think of anything to say. There **is** nothing to say. Emilia is dead. We'll live the rest of our lives like this, mentoring children who will be butchered in the arena. Every time one of them dies, a little piece of our hearts will die with them. Until there one day, there is nothing left.

"I guess this doesn't... look very good," I finally say, but Peeta just shakes his head.

"I'm just glad you got some sleep," he says. I guess he understands that if I wanted to cheat on him, I wouldn't be falling asleep in another man's arms in the same room where my husband is sleeping, anyway. I carefully get up, trying not to wake Cinna. He must've been awake all night, watching over us in our drug-induced sleep.

"It's over now," Peeta says as I sit down next to him. He takes my hand.

"It will never be over," I whisper.

* * *

Dinner that night is gloomy. Peeta is very pale, and I'm sure I look no better. Even Effie is silent tonight, she hasn't even bothered to put on any makeup. She looks so different without it. So young. Finally, her **own** features are visible. She is quite pretty, but she looks like a different person.

Haymitch is drunk, which is, I guess, not a surprise.

I don't really have an appetite, but force myself to eat.

During dessert, I finally ask: "Now what?"

Cinna answers: "The celebration has already started, there will be a street festival for the next two days. Free drinks and drugs for everyone. The Victor Banquet is in three days, and the victor interview the day after. And then..."

"Then what?"

"Then you can go home"

Four more days. I have to endure four more days of this, and then I'll be on the train on my way back to District 12.

I can do four more days.

I have to do four more days.

* * *

We stay on the 12th floor as much as we can during the next two days. Neither of us really want to meet anyone. Chaff and Johanna show up the next night, they get completely pissed together with Haymitch, and keep us awake all night with their singing and shouting. Not that it matters much, because we don't get much sleep, anyway.

I feel like we're back on scratch - we're back to where we were right after the 74th Hunger Games. Only now there are even more things to dream about. Emilia's death features heavily in my nightmares now - her red blood being sprayed into the air, the tiny droplets reflected in the light from the setting sun. There is even a strange, horrific beauty in it.

Peeta and I spend the day before the Victor Banquet up on the roof. It's a beautiful, sunny day. It's the first time I've been outside in days, I can't even remember when the last time was. It must've been before the 76th Hunger Games started, and it feels a lifetime ago. Effie got us a picnic basket, and we stay there all day. Peeta's reading a book, and I'm mostly just drowsing with my head resting in his lap.

I think the sun is chasing off the nightmares, at least it feels like it. Is this why Haymitch prefers to sleep during the day? I have never seen him more drunk than he has been these last few days. I worry that sooner or later, we're going to lose him. One day, his liver won't be able to take it anymore, or perhaps he'll fall down the stairs in his drunken stupor and break his neck.

What will Peeta and I do the day he's not there for us anymore?

I try to talk to Peeta about it, but I end up crying hysterically, and then I'm not able to say anything at all. Peeta just holds me, and I see from the dark, vacant look in his eyes that he has his own worries to think about.

The night before the Banquet, I accept the sleeping pills again from Effie, hating myself for it.

The next day, I'm woken at noon by my prep team. "It's a big, big day!" Effie squeals. She's there too, her make-up is back on now, to make sure that we are prepped just perfectly for the biggest social event of the year for victors. This is where the new victor is formally introduced to the rest of the groups of victors. I remember our own Banquet - where we had to pretend to be crazy in love. Well, where** I** had to pretend to be crazy in love. I remember my desperation when Snow shook his head to me all too well, and I was the only one who understood what it meant - that it wasn't good enough. I wasn't convincing him.

Have I convinced him now? Perhaps I've convinced him that I love Peeta, but still I think that whatever I do, I'll fail. It won't ever be good enough for him. Still, I'm not strong enough, or brave enough, to go against him openly. I have too much to lose, too **many** to lose. I'm not like Johanna, who has no one. Or like Finnick, who is protected by all the secrets he knows about - and his fame. He is so visible in the public eye and wildly popular in the Capitol, and it makes it hard to just have him... disappear. Although his relationship with Annie scares me, it's just the thing that Snow needs - a way to get to him.

What, then, do** I** have? I'm famous, too, but I'm famous for something that I haven't really done myself. All I really did, was survive the Hunger Games. Being a symbol for the rebellion - it wasn't something I ever planned, I didn't even know there **was** a rebellion. All I ever wanted was to go home, to live. I hated the Capitol, but my primary concern was just trying to provide for my family, to make sure Prim didn't have to go to bed hungry. My stunt with the berries was something I did in the spur of the moment, the only way I could think of that would mean we could both go home. How could I face District 12 alone, after having killed Peeta myself?

It was unthinkable.

My desperate, spontaneous act of rebellion came to mean so much more than I had intended, fueling an unrest and a divide that was already tearing Panem apart.

I should've just eaten those stupid berries. Then Peeta could've gone home and lived safely for the rest of his life.

* * *

I'm surprised to see that Cinna has made me a white dress. He doesn't generally dress me in white, except, of course, the wedding dress. This one is different, though - it's pure, both the color and the lines, hugging my curves yet not revealing too much. My hair flows freely over my bare shoulders, it's not in my usual braid nor in the elaborate, made-up hairdos I'm wearing for Capitol events. It's only held back from my face by pins with tiny pearls on them, like snow crystals in my dark hair. The shoes are ballerina-like, free of the usual constricting high heels.

When I look at myself in the mirror after they are done prepping me, I'm stunned. I look like... an angel. Like something out of this world. My make-up is a piece of art, even I can see that. It's masking my pale, drained skin and dark circles underneath my eyes without really making me look like I have make-up on at all. I look natural, fresh, innocent. Yet I don't look like a little girl, I look like a woman.

Peeta comes into the room, and when he sees me, his breath catches. Something is ignited in his eyes, and I suddenly remember that we haven't made love since the night before the Hunger Games started. Now is not the time, obviously, but the memory of his skin against mine, how deep and hard he thrust into me, is enough to make my face flush. He kisses me lightly on the lips, and my body instinctively presses against his, feeling the familiar, safe heat.

We'll get through this night, too. Together.

To my District 12 eyes, the party looks like a freak show. Most of the guests are sponsors and various other more or less distinguised celebrites, all of which are from the Capitol. I recognize a few from our Victor Banquet two years ago - I suppose sponsors still want to get their chance to get some fresh meat. Knowing now what goes on behind the scenes, I despise the sponsors even more now than I did before.

I wonder if they've already sold Kora's virginity, or at least her body if she's not a virgin.

I really hope she isn't, for her own sake.

We try to sneak in, the party isn't in our honor and we don't really want to attract attention, but it doesn't work. As soon as we enter the presidential garden - they must be doing something new this year, the banquet is outdoors, there is even a huge bonfire in the center of the garden - the chatter stills momentarily. I wonder why, but I feel my cheeks burning. I don't dare to look at Peeta, but I can feel his hand squeezing mine, reassuring me.

The chatter resumes, but I can feel the looks we are getting. We walk over to Haymitch, who has clearly started drinking already. He has champagne in his glass, not white liquor, but in the end, chemistry is chemistry. "Well, well, well, what's Cinna made for you this time?" he says, kissing my cheeks somewhat sloppily. I blush when he looks at me, his eyes lingering on my body. Is the dress too revealing? I don't understand, it's not particularly daring, at least not compared to many of the other Capitol dresses.

I frown, and he just chuckles. "You're unbelievable, Katniss. You really have no idea of the effect that you have." He downs his champagne. "You're wanted over there," he gestures with his head. "They've been asking for you several times already. You'd think you were like royalty, always the last to arrive."

My heart sinks. We're supposed to talk to President Snow, Plutarch Heavensbee and Kora. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I take a deep breath, and steel myself.

"Katniss and Peeta," Snow says, he shakes Peeta's hand and kisses my cheeks. I feel vomit rising in my throat, but try my best to smile as if nothing's happened. "May I introduce you to Kora? Our newest addition to the victor group. And the first ever to get a 12, too."

Which was surely no coincidence. She's been groomed to win this from the reaping.

As I look at her, all I can think about is the look on her face when they were torturing Connor. How she held the machine gun in her hands, it was obviously not the first time she'd used an automatic weapon, and how she just wouldn't stop shooting. She kept shooting long after Emilia was dead, making sure her parents won't even get their daughter's corpse back in a coffin, not in a recognizable form. There is nothing to say goodbye to, nothing that you can show someone's parents, anyway.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Peeta says. He's always so easygoing, he always knows what to say. I can barely get out a "hi", and I'm torn between feeling sorry for this career girl - for how she's been groomed to kill ever since she was in primary school, how she never had a true choice even though she volunteered, how she'll be sold and how she'll never be truly safe again... and hating her. Hating her for being a ruthless, vicious killer. Hating her for winning.

It should've been Emilia.

The fact that Peet and I mentored the very last tribute to die in the arena is of course not lost on her.

"She was quite a surprise, that dark-haired girl from District 12", Kora says, and I'm appalled to realize she hasn't even learned Emilia's name. "Didn't stand a chance in the end, though."

"A knife generally doesn't stand a chance against a machine gun," I say, and as soon as the words leave my lips I regret them, but I can't take them back.

Again, it sounds as if the chatter around me dies suddenly, briefly, the resumes hesitatingly.

Kora just chuckles. "I guess some are luckier than others, right?"

I can feel Snow's burning eyes on me, but I can't bring myself to look in his direction.

* * *

We stand there, feeling all alone in the crowd, hand in hand, watching the bonfire. This is something very exotic to the Capitol inhabitants. Their sources of heat comes from central heating, no one has fireplaces. Their parties are indoors, lavish, extravagant. To them, this fire is primitive, exciting, exhilarating.

To Peeta and me, fire is a part of life. He's grown up in a bakery, he's burned his hands so many times inside hot baker ovens. He has chopped wood until his back hurt so badly he could hardly walk. I've gone to bed in a cold house more times than I care to remember because we couldn't afford coal or wood. My father died mining for coal to make fire, heat, energy for the Capitol. Peeta's had too much of it, I've had too little. We watch the flames, the one thing in this terrible place that seems familiar and strangely safe. His blond hair looks like it's on fire, and when he looks at me, I know he can see the fire in my eyes again.

How I wish we were far, far away from this place.

He bends down to kiss me, pulling me in towards his large body. He's filled out a lot these two last years, he's more of a man than a boy now. He was the boy with the bread - now he's a man, my husband. He doesn't burn bread on purpose to save my life anymore, instead he bakes for the poor. His kiss devours me, pulls me in, makes me forget about the world for just a little while. When he finally releases me, one hand presses my upper body towards his, the other is down by my hip, caressing me through the white silk. It feels like his hands leave a trail of fire on my skin through the dress.

"Will you..." He swallows thickly, his eyes are rimmed with tears. "Will you share my toast with me?"

My breath catches.

All I can see is Peeta and fire.

"Here? Now?" I whisper.

He nods. "We don't know what happens tomorrow, next week, or next year. All I know is that I want you to be my wife, for real."

"Like we do in District 12, not in the Capitol," I murmur.

"Yeah."

After we started to grow together after the wedding, before we were sent to the Capitol for the Hunger Games again, there were actually a few times when I allowed myself to think about this - about a toasting, about a wedding ritual that was just **ours** and completely voluntary. I quickly shut the thoughts out when we came to the Capitol, though. And I certainly never imagined that it would be something we'd do **here**, in this city.

In front of all these people.

But no one's looking at us. No one will know. No one knows about this District 12 ritual, anyway. Why would they care about us toasting a piece of bread?

I should say no. I should say I want to wait until we come home, until we can be alone, that I want us to do this in the privacy of our home. But something draws me in - is it the fire? Is it the rebellious part of me, however small that part is, which wants to mock the president, even if Snow won't know it himself?

It's just the two of us - Peeta and me. And the fire.

"Yes, I'll share your toast with you," I breathe into his ear. His hands travel up to my head, holding it between his large, strong, warm hands. Our eyes meet, his fingers caress my hair. His pupils are enormous, I can hardly see his irises.

"You're on fire," he says, his voice husky, yet he sounds as if he's in... awe. "I'll be right back."

And then he goes over to the food table, which is tens of yards long and so full of food it's practically spilling over onto the lawn. Do they even have anything as plain as toast? I wonder.

But Peeta's a baker, of course he's already located the bread. He brushes off something from the toast, I don't know what it was, and discreetly breaks off a branch from a bush he's passing on the way back to me. We're improvising, but it will have to do. We quickly remove the leaves from the branch, and secure the piece of bread to it. It means bad luck if the toast falls off and into the fire, though, so we make very sure it won't.

I watch our hands as we do this, his large ones with scars from the ovens and my small, lean hunter's fingers, working together. It's not quite as it should be. If we were to do this the old-fashioned way, Peeta would be bringing home the flour as a symbol that he'd be the provider of our new family. I'd be baking the bread, symbolizing how I'd take care of our home for him. We'd toast the bread together, our first act of creating a home, of working together to feed our family and survive in the harsh reality that is life in District 12. Of couse, we got the bread from a Capitol table, and even if we'd be doing this at home, Peeta would be getting the flour from the bakery and he sure as hell would've baked the bread himself. We're not traditional, we've never done anything the old-fashioned way. It's just not who we are.

I hold the branch with my right hand, and his larger left hand covers mine, his fingers so warm and sure and strong. We kneel in front of the fire together, searching for and finding a place with glowing embers, not open flames. We wouldn't want to burn this toast, that's also bad luck. All I can hear is the sound of his somewhat labored breathing beside me, and the crackling of the fire. "I promise to share my fire with you, always. I'll keep you warm and share my food with you. I'll stay with you, always," Peeta says.

The wedding vows of District 12 say everything about how poor and underfed our district is. There are no rosy-red declarations of love, it's something no one in District 12 can spare the energy for. There's not even a judge or someone of any kind of religious or official authority - two persons in love, a fire and some bread are enough.

"I promise to share my fire with you, always. I'll keep you warm and share my food with you. I'll stay with you, always." I never thought that saying these simple words would mean so much to me.

The toast looks like it's done. Our hands still joined, we inspect the toast together.

It's perfect.

"Will you share my bread?" Peeta asks me.

And then I say the one word that truly makes us a married couple, in the eyes of our district: "Always."

He offers me the first bite, and I take it - I chew it slowly, savoring the taste while looking into his eyes, seeing how the fire makes his features into something of a fairytale. His eyes are filled with tears now, and I feel as if I'm looking into... him. I've never seen him quite like this.

I've never felt quite like this, either.

Then I offer him the second bite, and he accepts it, his eyes still not leaving mine. Then we take every second bite, never has bread tasted this wonderful, not even the burned bread he threw to me that time so long ago, in the rain, when I was almost starving to death. It feels like this bread, too, is saving my life.

When the toast is finished, we both get up, holding hands. I'm still clutching the branch - I know I'll take it home with me and treasure it, always. Most people in District 12 can't afford wedding rings, but the branch used for a couple's toasting will serve as a substitute.

His lips meet mine, and the kiss is dizzying, yet grounding me. Grounding me to him. The fire is soaring high above us, it's as if it's swallowing us, but we live through it. As we part, I'm astonished to see Haymitch standing there, tears rolling down his cheeks. Have I ever seen Haymitch cry before? I'd forgotten we aren't alone, all that existed in my world was Peeta and the fire and the bread. I blink my eyes, confused. "Congratulations," he says, hugging first me, then Peeta. "You take care of her, or I'll have to kick your ass," he says to Peeta, who laughs nervously. "And that goes for you too, Katniss. If you hurt him, I'll make you very, very sorry," he says with a wry smile. I hug him again, so grateful that we have this loving, damaged man in our lives to look after us.

Then Finnick and Annie are there, too, congratulating us. Annie is crying, and Finnick can hardly speak. I see how they are clinging to each other, I see their love in the looks that they share, the longing, the fear. "Girl on fire," Finnick whispers in my ear, and there's nothing suggestive about it now. He's just stating a fact.

And then the other victors come. I thought no one noticed us when we were just kneeling in front of the fire, with a piece of toast. I never considered that anyone would know what we were doing, know about this District 12 wedding tradition - obviously with the exception of Haymitch, but I thought he was too drunk to notice. But they all saw, and somehow they all understood. Hugs, congratulations, handshakes, wishes of luck and long, happy lives together. Even quite a few of the District one and two victors come to congratulate us, including Enobaria. Kora doesn't though, but I didn't expect her to. She doesn't know us, after all - and I'm also acutely aware that we just stole her thunder.

Then Cinna is here. I didn't even know he was invited to the party. He smiles a knowing smile, and suddenly I understand.

He knew. He somehow knew, before either of us did.

This was my real wedding dress. This was why he made this dress for me, it was meant for tonight.

"Thank you," I whisper in his year. "It was perfect."

"It was my honor, Mockingjay," he whispers back. I'm suddenly scared for him - that doing this, in front of everyone, will be dangerous for him, but the only thing I can do is trust that Cinna can take care of himself.

I can feel Snow's eyes on me, but I refuse to look in his direction. But the cold is so intense that it feels like the fire behind me is dying.

I see the reflection of myself in Peeta's eyes, and my breath catches. I see what the other see - a white creature on fire, skin flushed, eyes burning with love, desire, heat and anger all at once. I look down at my dress, and see that it actually looks like it's on fire. There seem to be threads, thinner than a human hair, woven into the silk. The threads are reflecting the fire behind me, the dress shimmers and changes constantly like the fire. The effect is incredible - I'm practically glowing.

I am the girl on fire. The woman on fire. Katniss Mellark.

The branch from our toasting is in my right hand, my left hand holds Peeta's large, rough hand firmly. Without a word, we leave the party, and not once do we look back.


	17. Chapter 17: Winter is coming

**T_hank you, everyone for your reviews of chapter 16! The response has been really overwhelming - I was a bit scared when I posted that chapter, I wasn't sure if you'd like their toasting. I was afraid it would come across as too sudden, perhaps even out of character. I'm glad you seem to think that's not the case!_**

**_Some people have asked me who the other mockingjay really is? There have been several suggestions. I'll leave that up to your imagination, but I know who the other Mockingjay is - who do you think it is? :) Perhaps it's open to interpretation. I have mine, but I'd love you hear yours!_**

**_The title of this chapter, and one line, is shamelessly stolen from Game of Thrones._**

* * *

**Chapter 17: Winter is coming**

"Perhaps we shouldn't have done it this way," I whisper to him on what is actually our second wedding night, the true one. There are no passionate embraces now, however, neither enforced nor voluntary. We are both too scared, as well as too exhilarated. We just lie there, both naked, skin touching skin, comforting each other. Having sex is the last thing on our minds.

He shakes his head. "It was right." I can feel that he's kissing the top of my head, his arms holding me even closer. I know that he'll never let me go. "We'll be okay."

I remember how Snow looked at us after, and I know that we'll pay for this. Dearly.

The night is dark and full of terrors.

* * *

We're going home before the victor interviews. I thought we were supposed to stay to watch them, but I guess Snow couldn't get rid of us fast enough after our little performance last night. I don't know if we're running or if we're being thrown out, but it doesn't matter - we're going **home**.

We do watch Kora's interview on TV, though - it is mandatory for all citizens of Panem, even if you're a victor on a train. It's pretty much what I would've expected - she's beautiful, charming, funny, deadly. I have a hard time separating the killer from the victim, because I know she is both. Have her nightmares started already? Have they sold her for the first time? Has she realized just what her future is going to be like? She is too beautiful and young for her own good. She is also a symbol for Snow, like me - although a symbol of a different kind. To him, she is a symbol of how he crushed us, but above all how he crushed **me**. She is the anti-Mockingjay. I'm glad if that means attention will be attracted to her instead of to me, but I'm afraid to hope.

But then they show the three-hour recap of the 76th Annual Hunger Games, and watching it is like being in a nightmare, only I'm awake. They revisit every single murder, dwelling on every gory detail. They flash in front of my eyes. Den. Bendy's rabid mutt eyes. Connor's torture. Rhona and Zenta. The meaningless murders of nameless tributes by the Cornucopia. Sarr. Twitch and Mend being buried under tons of rubble. And finally, Emilia's passing, the way her body is changed from a living, breathing girl to a bleeding, shapeless form on the square in a matter of seconds. As the first bullets tear through her in slow motion, Peeta's kiss on my forehead is the only thing keeping me from passing out.

No one mentions the Victor Banquet with one single word, and I know that's not a coincidence. Snow has most likely forbidden all talk of our toasting.

We're lying in the bed in our compartment, it's narrower than we're used to from home and from the Capitol, but we always end up sleeping lying so close to each other anyway, skin touching skin, that it doesn't matter. I'm exhausted from too many nights with too little sleep, but still I fight to stay awake.

"What do we do when we come home?" I ask him in the darkness.

"We give their bodies to their families, grieve with them. Then we try to live," he answers. He's brought up, for the first time, a terror of a new and different kind - Emilia and Den's coffins are on the last car of the train. This is a new tradition, we're told. We mentored our tributes, and as victors, failed. Now we are to give their bodies, such as they are, back to their families. I don't know if the other mentors from other districts have to do the same, perhaps they do, but I still know that this new tradition is in our dubious honor only.

It is punishment for the Banquet - but I don't believe for one second that it will be our only punishment.

* * *

How, then, do you live your life as if nothing's happened?

I don't. I can't.

I discover that although Peeta's arms are no longer enough on their own, sex actually helps somewhat. Having an orgasm just before going to sleep won't keep me free of nightmares, but it usually means I'll get at least a couple of hours of rest before they kick in. As a result, our activities in the bedroom are frequent, passionate, sometimes frantic and quite often something close to desperate. While our embraces are still first and foremost full of love, there is an element of darkness there that I wish we could be without, but I just can't ignore how this is the one thing that truly makes me feel **alive**.

Once a month, when it is time for my moon cycle, our activities in bed stop. I dread the five days it lasts, the nightmares treatening to consume me, even though I know that the alternative - missing a cycle due to pregnancy - is infinitely worse. My pills are hidden behind a loose brick by the fireplace, and I take one, every Saturday morning, silently thanking my mother every time. Peeta has a strange look of confusion mixed with relief every month, when I reject his advances and he understands why.

But life in District 12 goes on. I don't see much of Gale, who's working in the mines six days a week, and apparently he's very busy on Sundays, too. It takes a while for me to understand why - actually, Prim is the one who tells me that he's dating Madge.

"**Madge**?" I ask her, astonished. How could I not know?

She rolls her eyes. "She's been in love with him for ages. You never **see** people around you, do you?" I can't believe I'm having this discussion with my 14-year-old sister, who suddenly seems so much older than me.

It turns out their affair is secret - to everyone but her parents and me. The mayor's daughter being in a relationship with a miner is not going to go down well with her parents, and I'm sure Snow already knows, even if her father doesn't. I hope this isn't yet another thing he will use against me, although Gale and I haven't had much to do with each other these last two years. There is too much between us now. Too many memories, too many dead people, too many experiences he can't understand.

On the few occasions when I do see him, I'm surprised by the intensity in his eyes - an intensity that has nothing to do with me, and neither, I think, with Madge. He is almost glowing, but darkly. He won't talk about work, he won't talk about the unrest I hear hushed whispers of, the dissatisfaction among the miners. How one day, no one showed up for the day shift. They were punished severely, and no one in the district got their tesserae food that month. He won't talk to me about it, and I quickly give up asking. I'm being watched, constantly, and I'm a possible threat to him just by having him in my life.

But I know that somehow, Gale is involved in the rebellion. He's in deep.

So I hold my tongue, and stay away.

* * *

Winter is hard on District 12, even harder than usual. There is little food production in the district, as virtually everyone either works in the mines or belong to the merchant class - very few actually **produce** any food. The food, in insufficient amounts in any year, is mainly transported in from other districts.

This year, though, there is noticeably less food than usual. Peeta, Haymitch and I have more than enough, and as a result, so do our families, including Gale's family. I don't forget my promise from the woods, of providing for his family if he was reaped. I ended up being the one to go, but I still accept the responsibility.

But all around me, I see the starving children. The hollow eyes of their mothers, the lean, drawn faces of the miners, covered in coal dust. Peeta is still baking, but there is less flour available, even to a victor. He bakes as much as he can, the children in the orphanage and some of the worst-off Seam families are probably alive only thanks to him, but still there are days when he simply can't bake, because he doesn't have any flour or sugar.

On these days, he's like caged tiger.

My mother also notices the change.

"I've never had this many children dying from starvation coming for my help," she cries one night, after sending yet another child home with a prescription that she knows her parents just can't fulfill: More food. We sent some bread, powdered milk and meat home with them, but we know it won't last long. We also know that there are six other children at home, too, who are probably only marginally further away from death than their youngest, the two-year-old girl with the enormous, gray eyes.

This is yet another sign that Panem is in trouble. Districts 9, 10 and 11 produce the vast majority of the food that is consumed in Panem, and the near universal shortage of any kind of food tells me that they are all involved in the rebellion somehow. District 12 was too insignificant and poor to get supplies of fish and other seafood in the past anyway, but I already know that District four is deeply involved in the rebellion as well.

It's a difficult, dark, gloomy winter.

Even Peeta and I grow thinner, as we try to share as much of our still generous supplies as possible. I haven't been hungry since the Hunger Games, and it's hard to get used to going to bed hungry again.

The number of Peacekeepers increases, and their grip on the day-to-day lives of District 12 is tightening. There are whippings on a weekly basis in front of the Justice Building. Miners are imprisoned for even slight trespasses.

Winter makes the isolation even more frustrating. I know something is going on, but there are no sources of information available to me. I wonder if Haymitch might have some lines of communication out of the district, but I can't know for sure - and I know that if I try asking anyone, however discreetly, I'm placing them in danger.

If District 12 is dark and gloomy this winter, Haymitch is even gloomier. I've never seen him drink this much. I'm somewhat surprised that his supply of white liquor is this constant and reliable, when no other goods are, but I guess he's pulling some victor strings.

It's starting to feel as if Peeta and I are looking after Haymitch, not the other way around. Prim helps, too. This winter, I realize that she is almost an adult, she's no longer just my baby sister, who I have to protect. She has seen far too much in her young life, and this winter is making her grow up even faster. She helps my mother with her patients. She delivers food to the Seam from Peeta and me. She seems to be everywhere, comforting everyone with her blue, loving eyes and warm, soft hands. She always knows just what to say to help everyone feel better, even if they are still hungry. She is a born healer, and I know she'll follow in our mother's footsteps.

She is also the one who finds Haymitch one day, passed out on the floor.

In retrospect, I'm glad she was the one who came by. If it had been me, I might have just assumed he'd had too much to drink as usual, left the bread on the kitchen table and left. Prim, however, has been trained by my mother. She checks up on him, just to be sure he's okay, and finds out he's not. She quickly gets help from my mother, who in turn calls the Dr Antonius - the only formally trained doctor in the district. He's from the Capitol, and I don't know what he did wrong (or who he pissed off) to be posted here, but it must've been bad. He's not actually a bad doctor, I think, but his services are only available to a select group of prominent people in the district - fortunately, victors are of course among them.

Together with my mother, Dr Antonius saves Haymitch's life, but only just. He's been drinking all his life, and I find it hard to believe that he doesn't know better - surely he knows how much his battered liver can take? The wounds on his arms, however shallow, make me even more suspicious. He's clearly inflicted them on himself, not to kill, but to harm himself.

Has the pain finally become too much to bear, even for Haymitch?

After this horrible night, when for the first time I truly realize that one day, we will lose him, Peeta and I come up with a plan. We go through every single corner of the house, including all the known places where he stashes away liquor, confiscate everything we find, and ration it to him. We know we can never sober him up, but we can make sure he'll never have lethal amounts of liquor available. We make deals with the people working at the train station, bribing them with ham and bread, making sure that all Haymitch's liquor supplies from the Capitol will go via us, never directly to him. He curses, throws things at us and is terribly rude, but sometimes he breaks down and cries because he's happy we're helping him, that we care.

Spring comes late, but in April, we can finally say that winter is over. The population of District 12 has suffered greatly. As soon as the ground finally starts to thaw, they dig a mass grave at the cemetary for everyone, children and old people mainly, who didn't make it through winter. They weren't able to bury anyone until now. Everyone in District 12 attends the ceremony. There aren't even enough coffins, and the horror of seeing all the little, light bodies swathed in cheap, dirty, beige linen cloth being buried side by side is unimaginable. Even the mines close for a few hours so the miners, many of them fathers and sons of one or more of the dead, can attend the funeral.

The next day, life must go on.

Spring is often the hardest time of the year when you're starving, when the stores are completely depleted yet it's still too early to find any food in the forest or to harvest anything from your garden or field. Fortunately, our food shipments from the other districts come in somewhat more frequently now, and I'm hopeful that we'll avoid any more mass funerals this year.

The electric fence, my prison, is powered 24 hours a day. I long to go to the forest to hunt, but I have to learn to be content roaming the areas inside the fence. It's better than nothing, and I even get a squirrel or two from time to time.

On a particularly nice spring day, when the last of the snow is finally gone, I come home with three squirrels and one rabbit. The sun is shining and warms my pale, nearly translucent skin, making me feel alive and almost happy for the first time in months. I'm proud of the result of my day hunting inside the fence, and I think that we have to invite Haymitch over for dinner, he loves rabbit, and he needs some company.

The front door is wide open, and for a second I think that Peeta must have come home early - but why would he leave the door open?

Yet there is no smell of bread or food. It smells of...

Roses.

I drop my killings and instinctively find an arrow, entering very quietly the house, like the hunter that I am. After going through all the rooms, I conclude that no one is here - at least no one's here anymore. The house reeks of roses, and I open every single window to try to get rid of the smell, even though the air outside is still cold, but it doesn't feel like it helps. I open the kitchen windows last, and I have to hold on to the windowsill to keep myself steady, I'm feeling so dizzy and sick. Finally, I turn around - and see that there's something on the kitchen table.

An envelope.

As if in a trance, I walk over to the table, and pick up the envelope with shaking hands.

"Katniss," it says, handwritten in black ink. My bow drops to the floor. I open the envelope, and the suddenly intensified synthetic rose scent is making me gag.

_"Dear Katniss,_

_I've been patient for quite some time now, but as the 77th Hunger Games are drawing closer, it's time to throw away the pills._

_May the odds be ever in your favor."_

There is no signature, but there is no need to.

I hear a terrible scream, I think it may be mine.

Then I run.

* * *

_**I just want you to know that I am working on this story, but you might have to wait for a while for the next update. I'm currently working on chapters 18-20, and they are just so difficult to write. I guess the last sentences of this chapter tells you why. Plus I've been so busy with the Prompts in Panem challenge, I haven't really had time to write as much on this story as I'd like. I'm working on it, though. Please review! Reading your reviews is so inspiring!**_


	18. Chapter 18: The truth revealed

**_The sentences in italics are taken from Catching Fire, pages 210-211, written by the wonderful Suzanne Collins._**

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**Chapter 18: The truth revealed**

_My body reacts before my mind does and I'm running, out of the door, across the lawns of the Victor's Village, into the dark beyond. Where? Where to go? The woods, of course. I'm at the fence before the hum makes me remember how very trapped I am. I back away, panting, turn on my heel, and take off again._

_The next thing I know I'm on my hands and knees in the cellar of one of the empty houses in the Victor's Village. Faint shafts of_ sunlight, and hours later _moonlight, come in through the window wells above my head. I'm cold and wet and winded, but my escape attempt has done nothing to subdue the hysteria rising up inside me. It will drown me unless it's released. I ball up the front of my hirt, stuff it into my mouth, and begin to scream. How long this continues, I don't know._ But when I stop, I only do so because my throat is raw and bare. I curl up on my side and stare at the patches of light on the dirty cement floor.

He knew. He knew all along.

The pills.

I'm going to have to have Peeta's baby. A baby I'll feel move and kick inside of me, a baby I'll give birth to, nurse, love, carry, hold close, sing to, laugh with, we will watch him or her grown up - and then our child will be taken from us. Reaped. Killed. Our child will never stand a chance in the arena, the Games will most certainly be rigged.

We will have to mentor our own son or daughter. Remembering how it felt to lose Emilia last year, I know with absolute certainty that losing my own child is something I cannot survive.

Outside, I can hear people calling my name repeatedly, all night. Peeta, Haymitch, my mother, Prim, Gale, Hazelle. I'm unable to move, my body frozen in the fetal position, shaking from both fear and cold.

When at last Peeta finds me at dawn, I'm so cold it's as if my mind is disconnected from my body. He scoops me up easily, he's so strong and I'm thin after the long winter.

He takes me home. Prim and my mother give me a bath, trying to get some heat into my dangerously hypothermic body. It hurts when the blood returns to my limbs, my joint feel like fire when they are again movable. Prim talks me into drinking some warm chocolate, my lips are blue and I'm shaking so badly I can hardly get anything down.

I can see from their faces and the way they seem to be unable to meet my eyes that they know about the letter.

Finally, they put me to bed, naked. "Hop in with her, Peeta," my mother says, and it's not a request, it's an order. "She needs skin to skin contact, it will help heat her up more quickly." Peeta blushes, then nods. Both my mother and Prim stay in the room, and he looks uncomfortable undressing in front of my family - not that I can blame him. Keeping his boxers on, thankfully, he quickly lies down next to me underneath the duvet and several wool blankets, putting his arms around me, pressing his warm stomach against my cold back. His skin feels burning hot against mine, and for the first time tonight - or rather this morning - I actually feel some heat returning to my body.

I break down completely, my sobs are so heavy and desperate that they are threatening to tear me apart. My mother kisses my forehead, then leaves with a sad look at the two of us. Prim's blue eyes are filled with tears as she follows my mother.

* * *

When I wake up, I still feel chilled to the bone. The memory of Snow's letter comes back in a flash, hitting me with such an immense force that I vomit, partly on the bed and partly on the floor. I just sit there, crying while apologizing profusely, while Peeta cleans up the mess. I feel like a child, but I can't make my body move, I'm reduced to being a crying wreck, and I hate myself for it.

When he's changed the bed and opened both the windows fully to let in fresh air, he finally sits down next to me, taking my hand.

"I read the letter." I had figured as much. When he found the letter and the bow, he must've understood that I'd read it, too. "I don't fully understand, but I think I… The pills that were mentioned in the letter… Were they… contraceptive pills?" I nod. "Who gave them to you?"

I shake my head slightly, and he just nods. I'm guessing Snow knows my mother gave them to me, that he knew all along, but I certainly don't dare to confirm it here, now, knowing our house is surely being tapped.

"It doesn't… doesn't matter who gave them to me."

"I guess not." He pauses, looking unsure. "You've been taking them all along?"

"Yeah," I whisper.

"Why didn't you tell me? I thought that… there was perhaps something wrong with me. Or... **Us**. I mean, every month when you got your moon cycle, a part of me would be relieved, but there was another part of me that was…" His voice trails off. I realize with a start that he **wants** to have a baby. He wants to have a baby with **me**. Despite all my problems, the nightmares, my dubious mothering abilities, despite the Capitol and the Hunger Games. How can he stay so positive? To, despite it all, still view having a child as a good thing, not a disaster?

I let go of his hand and turn away from him, curled up in bed. Once again, I'm faced with doing something against my will to save Prim's life – because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that her life is what's at stake here. The reaping is only a few months away, and if we don't do this, if we don't at least **try** to get pregnant, her name will be on every single slip of paper in the glass bowl. "How can I choose between my sister and my child?" I finally manage to say between my sobs. I reach out for him, and his strong arms envelope me, pulling me into his comforting warmth.

"That's still 13 years away, if not more," he whispers in my hair. "Who knows what the world will be like then?" I freeze, suddenly terrified that he's making things even worse. Is he implying that he thinks there will be a successful revolution in the future, overthrowing the Capitol and ending the Hunger Games? The house is tapped, I hardly even dare to think thoughts like that, and speaking them out loud is unthinkable.

"You know as well as I do that if we have a child, he or she will be reaped."

"I know," he finally answers, after a long pause. He's crying now, too.

Then I suddenly remember that it's Saturday – Pill Day. I run down to the living room, panicking, and remove the loose brick behind which I hid my precious bottle of pills – and I'm not surprised to find that it's gone. So they haven't really left us with any choice, except abstinence. There are no safe, reliable methods of birth control available in District 12. Perhaps some of the higher ranking merchant wives have access to the birth control pills my mother gave me, but they must be few and far between.

We stand there staring at the empty hole. I don't have to tell Peeta what it means, what used to be there.

"We don't have to… I mean, we can just stop having sex," Peeta says, his voice low. "Or there are other things we can do… You wouldn't have to get pregnant."

And I know he's right, there are still many things we can do together in bed that would bring us both pleasure, although it would still change this aspect of our relationship tremendously – but I know it's not a possibility.

"No, that's not an option," I tell him, my voice suddenly hard and cold. "We have to go through with this." Without thinking, I fling myself at him, pressing my mouth hard against his, I think I can taste blood and I realize I must've hurt him, or perhaps I've bit myself. I tug nearly violently at his t-shirt while opening the zipper of his jeans with my other hand. There is something desperate about how I attempt to undress him, and his hands catch my wrists, removing my hands from his body. He presses my body up against the wall to control me, both my wrists are against the wall now, his body pressing into mine to keep me still.

"Katniss, stop." I try to fight him, but he's far too strong for me. "Stop, Katniss! Calm down! I can't do this… Not like this. When you're hurting and upset. It would feel like…" His voice trails off again. "Please. Nothing has to happen today." A tear is rolling down his cheek as he releases his grip on my wrists and open his arms to me, hugging me as I cry.

* * *

I lie in bed all day, almost unresponsive, although Peeta manages to talk me into eating some cheese buns.

My head is spinning. I fall asleep at one point, and wake screaming, clutching at the pillow that I thought was the baby that Snow was taking away from me. Peeta tries to comfort me, running from the kitchen to our bedroom when he hears the screams, but it takes him a full hour to reach through to me.

Is this punishment for our public toasting? In the end, I have to ask him the question that's been weighing heavily on me all day, the one question I keep coming back to.

To my surprise, he immediately shakes his head. "No, this is our punishment for… being alive."

And I know he's right. Even though we were openly mocking Snow when we went through with our toasting in front of everyone who is anything in the Capitol, even though this might have affected the timing of the arrival of the letter, this would've happened eventually, anyway. When Snow could force us to get married, even force us to consummate our marriage on the wedding night – what is this but one more thing, after all? Snow is used to playing God, he does it every day. He makes decisions about life and death all the time, and even though I'm guessing most of those decisions are about death – birth is intimately linked to death, it's just another aspect of life. For him, making decisions about someone giving birth to a baby must not be a big deal, just another task on the program of the day.

My mother comes to check on me in the afternoon. Peeta gives us some privacy, and I don't know whether I'm relieved or scared. She examines me, quickly yet carefully, and seems satisfied. My body temperature is back to normal, I haven't sustained any serious frostbite injuries, and I'm eating and drinking again. I'm exhausted but essentially fine.

"Katniss, I read the letter, too," my mother says, after telling me I'll be fine. "I'm sorry if I…" I shake my head, putting a finger on my lips. I don't want her to say anything to incriminate herself. "Can you try to think of me as a healer for a few minutes, and not as your mother?"

I cringe, fearing the worst, but nod. This can't be good.

"I can only assume that the two of you are intimate, as husband and wife?" I nod, looking down at my hands, my cheeks flushed. "Regularly?" I nod again. "How often?"

"Mom!" I try to protest, but she won't let me off.

"How often, Katniss?"

I just want to sink through the floor and disappear. I don't know if I can ever look my mother in the eyes again. "Nearly every day," I murmur, so low she can barely hear me.

My mother just nods. "Okay. That makes things more complicated. I'm guessing not being intimate is not an option for you?"

This just keeps getting worse. I think about what Peeta said, that we don't have to have sex, that we can just… stop. But I know it would never work. Not now that we know what it's like, how important sex is for us as a couple. We are still only 19 years old, all raging hormones, and we are in love. I shake my head slowly.

"Still, there are alternatives. They are not as reliable as the alternative that you have… used until quite recently, but they are better than nothing. I assume you know about safe periods?" I nod. They taught us in school, as it is really the only option available to many couples in the Seam. "That's one option, although far from perfect. There are techniques besides just counting days you can use to make it more reliable, I can teach them to you if you want. They worked quite well for me in the past." I hadn't expected that confession, but of course, we never discussed birth control before. But I should've guessed that my parents had used some form of birth control, as they were married for a number of years and only had two children. I assume they didn't feel that they could feed more than two extra mouths, and often only barely that. "You can also combine it with your partner not finishing inside you, although it takes quite a lot of self-control on his part, which can be challenging, especially with a young partner." My face is now crimson red. I can't think of her only as a healer, it's just not possible.

"It doesn't matter, mother," I tell her quietly. "Whatever we do, we… Trying to avoid having a baby isn't an option. It doesn't matter if the pills are gone – even if they hadn't been stolen, I couldn't have taken them. They will know. If we try any other methods of birth control, they will know. They expect us to have a child, and if we don't provide them with one…." My voice trails off.

"Have you considered what would happen if you can't conceive?" My mother asks, her voice very low now.

I shake my head, feeling even worse now, my heart filling with dread. "Is that… likely?"

"No, there is no reason to believe that you can't have children, but you never know."

I consider the timing of the letter, now just a few months before the Hunger Games. Do they expect me to arrive in the Capitol pregnant for the Hunger Games? I feel vomit rising in my throat again, but force it down. The time for mental breakdowns is over, I can't afford to be weak.

"I guess we'll just have to take our chances," I whisper.

My mother surprises me by giving me a hug. She rarely touches me, and when she does, it's usually a pat on the cheek or stroking my hair very briefly. Although we are closer now, we haven't had a close mother-daughter relationship since my father died – and frankly, we weren't very close back when he was alive, either. I was always daddy's little girl. "I'm so sorry you have to go through all this, Katniss," she murmurs, and I hug her back, I cling to her, almost like I cling to Peeta after he wakes me up from a nightmare. "I'm sorry that even this, having a baby, which is supposed to be the greatest thing in your life, is being tainted."

I don't reply, because there is nothing to say. I allow myself to drift back in time, to a place where I always felt safe and warm, safe in my mother's arms. I barely remember it, but I used to sleep between my parents, before Prim was born. I remember the feeling of comfort and of being **safe**, the heat from their bodies enveloping me, the smell of coal and soap and sunshine. Now the only smell that's left is my mother's soap, which is the same even after all these years. It's enough to transport me back to a safer place, though, where there are no shadows and nightmares. If only for a little while.

* * *

In bed that night, I can tell that Peeta is apprehensive and nervous. He's holding me, but not as closely as he usually does. I can hear by his breathing in the darkness that he's still awake.

"I'm not going to... jump you," I finally whisper. Peeta doesn't answer immediately, but I hear an almost imperceptible sigh. "I'm sorry about earlier today, I wasn't thinking. I was just hurting so much, and I thought that perhaps I could... signal that we'd... I needed to make sure that Prim was safe."

"Are you sure they are still watching?" He whispers.

"Yes. And if they're not watching, they are listening." His grip around my waist tightens.

"How long does it take until the pills stop working?" He finally asks.

"They have to be taken weekly. I was supposed to take one this morning."

"So... theoretically you could get pregnant tonight?"

I can feel my throat constricting. "Yes," I croak.

"Oh." He's silent for a long time. Finally, he continues: "I need some... time for this, Katniss. I need to process everything."

"Is it really going to be that different?" I ask him. "I mean, you've thought all along that me becoming pregnant was a possibility, haven't you?"

"Yes. I guess I did. But at the same time a part of me also thought that perhaps... perhaps you had a way of avoiding pregnancy that you never told me about. After what you said on our wedding night..."

We lie in silence for a long time.

I'm the one who finally speaks. "I'll make a horrible mother," I whisper, my voice hardly audible.

"No you won't, Katniss," he whispers back, stroking my back. "You have so much love, you have so much to give. You are so fiercely protective of the people that you love."

I nearly chuckle, but the laughter dies before it reaches my throat. "I won't be able to protect our son or daughter," I say, slowly. "I can't protect our baby from the Hunger Games." Because that's what I do, I protect people. That's what **we** do, we protect each other. And now we'll have to create someone who we will never be able to keep safe, not truly."

He is quiet for a long time, so long that I think he's fallen asleep. Finally he says, in the darkness: "You said that it wouldn't really be... different. Now. But it is."

I turn towards him, even though I can't see his face. When he doesn't continue, I ask: "What do you mean?"

"Before, if... If we'd had a baby, it would be because we chose to have one. You would **choose** to get pregnant. But now... It's just another thing, another decision, that's taken out of our hands." And they find each other in the darkness, our fingers intertwining, although hands can offer little relief from our lives as victors.

* * *

Thank you so much for all your PMs, favorites, follows and reviews! Please keep the reviews coming, getting feedback is so motivating. You can also find me on Tumblr, search for MockingJayFlyingFree.


	19. Chapter 19: Capitol puppets

_**100 favorites and nearly 300 follows! Wow, I'm speechless. Thank you so much, everyone! Let's celebrate with an extra long chapter - shall we?**_

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**Chapter 19: Capitol puppets**

The next day, I'm unable to get out of bed. As much as I try, all I can manage is a trip to the bathroom, then I collapse in bed again. Peeta brings me breakfast in bed, but I just turn away, from both him and the cheese buns, and his eyes darken.

He leaves the house, and then he comes back with my mother - and Haymitch.

"You need to get out of bed, Katniss," my mother says, and suddenly she's making me feel like I'm five years old. I scowl, pulling the duvet over my head to block them all out. "Staying in bed is not going to help." She pulls down the duvet, forcing me to look at her. I'm aware of how my greasy, sweaty hair is making me look unkempt and dirty, but I don't care.

"What exactly is in need of getting better?" Haymitch asks, and I realize that he doesn't know yet. Peeta didn't tell him, and he obviously hasn't read the letter, either.

I know that this isn't something we can keep from Haymitch in the long run, though - he's clever, he'll find out soon enough anyway. I'm surprised they even managed to keep the truth away from him after I was found a shivering wreck in a basement. And no one here knows the inner workings of the Hunger Games better than he does, for better or for worse – although it's usually the latter.

"We've been ordered to have a baby," Peeta says. His voice is distant and cold, as if he's talking about something completely different from having a child with his wife.

The stream of profanities exiting Haymitch's mouth is long and ugly, and I'm surprised my mother doesn't interrupt it, but I've come to realize that my mother is stronger than she looks. Come to think of it, as a healer, I guess she's heard quite a lot of swearing on her table, stitching up wounds without local anesthetics, delivering babies - and worse. When the word stream finally stops, he takes a large gulp of white liquor from the bottle he always keeps in his pocket, then asks: "Is there anything you'd like to tell me about what you've been doing until now? Because I'm assuming what you've been doing so far is more than enough to possibly make children? I mean, I don't sleep at night, and you haven't always been very discreet. Ever heard of closing the window?" I blush furiously.

"I gave her contraceptive pills before their wedding night, Haymitch," my mother says, and I send her a terrified look.

"Mom!"

"Oh, come on, Snow already knows where those pills came from, he's not stupid. And yes, I do know the house is bugged." She rolls her eyes, and I cringe, thinking about the people who are surely listening in on us now.

It's almost unbearable to listen to them talking about the pills. They have been my secret for so long. They have been a dark secret, because I couldn't tell Peeta, yet they were my relief and escape. The fact that they were needed in the first place also say so much - too much - about my relationship to Peeta. I'm an intensely private person, and I never wanted to share this aspect of our relationship with anyone but Peeta. Now we are openly discussing our sex life with my mother and Haymitch, we are even being taped while doing it. We've had to share so much of our personal lives with the Capitol already - and it never seems to stop.

"So now what, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks, and the sarcasm is gone from his voice.

I answer: "We make a baby," and simultaneously Peeta says: "I don't know."

Haymitch downs the rest of the bottle. "Well, let me know when you find out. I'd like to know if I should keep my windows closed at all times or not."

* * *

"I'm not touching you again until we figure this out." His words reach me in the dark as if from across an abyss. Our bodies are only inches apart in our bed, yet the void between them seems immense. He has turned down my advances. Again. Not that I can blame him, desperate as they were. It's been more than a week since I received the letter from Snow, and we seem to be unable to come to an agreement on what is to be done. I know there is only one option: To make that baby, which will keep Prim safe from the upcoming reaping. Even though I know, deep inside, that I'll be sacrificing my child for my sister, I just can't go there. I **can't** think about it. It's easier to hand someone who doesn't exist yet over to the Capitol to die, than doing the same with someone who's actually a living, breathing human being – right here, right now.

How I'll feel about it later, when the baby is actually born, is something I don't allow myself to think about.

"You're a survivor, Katniss," Peeta sighs. His breath is ragged, I must have turned him on with my mouth and my hands and my hips grinding into his, even as he shrugged me off. "You'll do whatever it takes to survive. And that includes saving your loved ones."

Prim.

"Do you think I'm heartless?" I whisper to him. Somehow it's easier to talk about this in the darkness.

In the darkness I can only barely see that he's shaking his head in response. "No. But you're hurting so badly… And I know this isn't what you really want. How can I try to get you pregnant when Snow is practically holding a gun to your head, and when I know what having a baby under these circumstances will do to you?"

"You don't know what it will do to me," I object.

"I'm afraid it will crush you. What if you can't deal with it?"

"I don't know. All I know is that I can't deal with being the reason why Prim is dead."

He sighs. "I'm sorry, Katniss. But this just feels so… wrong."

He turns around in bed, facing the wall. Soon, his breathing becomes slow and regular, but I know he's only feigning sleep. His breaths just aren't deep enough, but he doesn't know how many times I've listened to him at night after he's fallen asleep.

We seem to be unable to communicate about this – every time I try to broach the subject, usually after he has turned down my advances yet again, we end up either having a fight or we are just being distant – like now.

And I think that even disregarding Peeta's stubborn refusal to sleep with me, that's not the only thing working against us. I need to get pregnant as soon as possible. The reaping is less than three months away. Is that all I have available - two or, at most, three chances? I feel as if I can't waste one single day. What if I can't have a child? What if my ovaries are damaged beyond repair by the hunger in my childhood and early teenage years?

I don't get much sleep that night.

* * *

I'm in the forest, the little patch of it which is inside the fence. It's my only escape now, the only place where I can breathe freely. Every look from Peeta reminds me of what we're required to do. It's a massive wall between us.

Suddenly, I find myself by the stream, the place where we first were together - for real. Where we made love because we chose to. We thought we were alone back then, nearly one year ago, and every detail of what happened is etched in my memory. I refuse to let the memories be tainted by knowing that we weren't alone, after all. That even here, they knew.

They saw.

I walk down to the river - the water is still too cold to even consider swimming. I find the very spot where we were lying, rolling over our clothes, when he was the only person who existed in my world. I sit down with my arms around my knees, my tears being absorbed by the fabric of my trousers.

When I finally get up to go home, my knees are stiff and my jeans are covered in snot and dark, wet tear stains.

* * *

When I come home, dinner is ready. It's been ready for quite a while, it seems.

As I was sitting by the river, I hardly noticed that it was getting darker, and now it's nearly nine. As soon as I open the front door, he comes running into the hallway to meet me. "Where the hell have you been?" he yells at me, his eyes dark with danger. I rarely see him like this. I'm tired and in a bad mood already, and being greeted like this is definitely rubbing me the wrong way.

"None of your damn business," I snap, throwing my jacket on the floor without bothering to hang it up, even though I know it annoys him so much. I walk into the kitchen, and find that the table has been set with our best china. The two lit candles on the table are almost burned down, quiet testimony of how long he's been waiting for me. Dinner smells delicious - lamb with herbs, rice and bread. Peeta's bread, the best I've never tasted.

I was just planning to get some bread and milk and go to bed angry, perhaps picking a fight with him first. But seeing how much effort he's put into this, especially considering how distant and at the same time aggressively sexual I've been lately, even knowing he doesn't want me, I feel horrible. "It smells wonderful, Peeta," I whisper. I see that he's prepared himself to yell at me, to continue our fighting, but his shoulders sink when he sees that I'm not angry or snapping at him anymore. "Do you think we can reheat it?" I ask him, and he nods gratefully.

While he quickly reheats the food, I change the candles. Dinner does taste wonderful, even though I'm sure it would've been even better three hours ago. We don't speak much, but the silence isn't threatening anymore - it's just comfortable.

"I'm so tired, Peeta," I finally find the courage to tell him. "I'm so tired of being a Capitol puppet." I know these are dangerous words, but I think that considering the circumstances, they should be understandable, even for President Snow.

"I know," he answers, helping himself to a second serving of lamb. We haven't had a dinner as good as this one in months, we've been giving away as much food as we possibly could to the many inhabitants in District 12 who are much less fortunate than we are.

When it comes to food, anyway.

As I'm doing the dishes after dinner, he comes up behind me, putting his arms around my waist, kissing my neck. Not in a demanding way, only loving and tired, both asking for and providing forgiveness. "Will you let me in, Katniss?"

I freeze for a moment, then continue with what I was doing. "What do you mean?" My voice sounds insecure, nearly shaking.

"Please don't shut me out. I know you're hurting so badly, but please - let me in. **Talk** to me, don't just..." His voice trails off, and I know what he means. Don't throw yourself at me, only to yell at me when I reject you.

It's as if he reads my mind. "It's not that I don't want you, Katniss... Because I always want you, I always will. But not like this. Not when you're hurting so much, not... Not again."

I turn around in his arms. "Are you thinking about... Our first time?" I whisper.

He nods. "Yes. This is the same, only... Perhaps even worse."

I know he's right. Back then, it was only the two of us, after all. Now we're gambling with someone else's life, in effect putting Prim's interests over the interests of our unborn, as of yet unconceived child.

"I never thought I could possibly feel worse than I did on that night... Not after a while, I mean, when we got… more into doing what we were doing, it was good," I quickly assure him, when I see that his eyes fill with tears. I brush them away with the back of my hand. "But this is..." I can't continue.

"I'm so sorry about all of it," he says, holding me closely, I can feel his breath against my ear. "I wish..."

"I know. We'll never be free of the Hunger Games, will we?"

He shakes his head. "No."

I take a deep breath. I've never asked a scarier or braver question than this one. "Peeta, will you try to make a baby with me?" My voice is barely audible.

He releases me slightly, so that we are face to face. His eyes meet mine, and I'm not surprised to see that the tears that I brushed away just a few moments ago are back. "What would you say if my answer was no?" He asks me.

"I honestly don't have an answer to that question," I say slowly, "because it's simply not an option. The reaping..."

"I know," he says, kissing my forehead lovingly. "I know." He pauses. "What scares you the most? I mean, aside from the obvious."

The question shows just how well he knows me. Besides knowing that our child will be taken from us when he or she is a teenager, that our child will be reaped and killed in what I can only assume will be a horrible way in the arena... It's like a wall, I can't get around it. But there is more that I'm afraid of, there's so much more.

"I never thought I'd have a child," I finally confess. "I mean, even before the Hunger Games... I saw my mother, I saw how badly she failed as a parent when my father died. I don't know what to do, I'm... Afraid I'll somehow do the same. That there's not enough love in me for a baby, that I love you too much for there to be any love left for anyone else. And I'm scared I won't know what to do, how to deal with having a person who will depend on me all day, all night, how can I ever be **enough**? I'm just Katniss, I'm scared and broken and selfish and..." I've started crying now. "Do you need me to continue?" I laugh bitterly through my tears. "Because the list goes on and on."

"I don't think you give yourself enough credit, Katniss," he says, lifting my chin with his hand, forcing me to meet his blue eyes. "You don't see what everyone else sees - a strong, brave woman who will do anything for the ones she loves. You've been through so much, but you still have the courage to go on. You share your food with others, even if it means you'll go hungry yourself. You were a mother for Prim when you were only a child yourself, she's alive only because of you. You always find a way to survive, you never give up. You are so full of love, but you don't allow yourself to see everything that's **good** in you, what you mean to people, the effect that you have. You're a light in the darkness, Katniss, not only for me, but for so many others as well." These are, again, dangerous words. "I'm sad it has to be like this - I wish you'd eventually ask me this question because you **want** to have children with me. But even now, when things are... the way they are... I just want you to know that I'll always feel lucky and privileged to have a baby with you, Katniss.

I close my eyes, breathing heavily. And I think, Snow forced us to consummate our marriage on our wedding night. He wanted to break us, but instead, he bound us closer together. Again, he wants to break us, to create a weapon he can use against us. But we are different, Peeta and I - we may bend, but we don't break. "Will you have a baby with me?" I repeat.

"Yes," he breathes back. There are tear in his eyes, but still.

His answer is yes.

I can hardly believe it.

It feels different now, somehow. There is suddenly a purpose to what we're doing that wasn't there before, I hadn't expected the pressure to be so overwhelming. This last week, when I've practically thrown myself at Peeta, I've been aggressive. Hurting. A true huntress, but a wounded one. Now, I've lost all the edge my pain gave me. Instead, I feel almost like I did on our very first night together - shy, insecure, scared. He seems to sense it, because he takes it very slowly. We spend an eternity kissing. The kisses are bit hesitant at first, but then they grow more passionate as the now so familiar heat flames up in my belly. My pulse goes up, my heart beating wildly in my chest, and I can feel my skin flush. My body is getting ready for him, my panties are already drenched. It's been too long since we were together, and despite all my reservations, my body remembers, my body wants this. When his hand hesitantly moves underneath my shirt to rest on my belly, I tense for just a second before I relax against him. He quickly moves away from my belly, perhaps sensing that this area of me is too difficult to deal with right now. Instead, his hand travels up, to my left breast. His sigh when he discovers that I'm not wearing a bra is so familiar and encouraging it makes me smile. "Bedroom?" I whisper in his ear.

He shakes his head, while pinching my nipple, making me groan and buck against him. "No. I can't wait that long, the couch will be fine." It seems I'm not the only one who has missed this. He half pushes me, half lifts me as we somehow move from the kitchen to the living room. Various pieces of clothing are torn off and abandoned on the floor on our way to the couch. As we pass through the door from the kitchen to the living room, he suddenly has me pressed up against the wall, my feet are around his hips, his erection pressing against me. The friction causes me to buck against him, my head thrown backwards, and he automatically thrusts against me when I move. A low groan, starting from very low in his chest, vibrates through me, through the air, and I'm distantly aware of my own moans as he stimulates my clit with his cock through four layers of clothing. Since we started being intimate after our return to District – aside from the nightmare of the 76th Hunger Games – we haven't gone this long without being together. Suddenly, my body seems desperate to make up for lost time, and so is his.

"We gotta slow down, Katniss, I'm about to come in my boxers like a 13-year-old," Peeta pants in my ear, yet he seems unable to stop grinding into me. Everything around me is hazy, but this one thing I can focus on: I want him inside me. I want him to come inside me, whatever the consequences of that may be. It may be a baby, or it may not, but at this point, I just need him inside me. Dry humping me against the wall won't be enough, even though he has me dripping wet already just by doing that.

"Peeta, couch. Now." I'm unable to compose a coherent sentence myself, but I am able to push him off me, put my feet on the ground although my knees feel shaky. I almost run toward the couch, and Peeta follows me like a tiger, like he's the hunter and I'm his prey. I shed the remaining items of clothing I'm still wearing while simultaneously tearing at his. Before I really know what's happening, I'm lying on my back on the couch, it's a bit too narrow to be completely comfortable when I spread my legs, but I'm far beyond caring. Peeta, despite his arousal and the imminent orgasm which I see both in his eyes and his twitching cock, is ever the gentleman as he reaches down between my legs to test my readiness for him. What he finds is me being so wet it would be embarrassing if I hadn't been so desperate for him.

Still, he takes time to lick my juices off his fingers, moaning appreciatively as he does so. "You taste so good, Katniss," he groans, and all my throat can produce is a strangled moan in return, parting my things even further to allow him access, encouraging him. Suddenly, he changes. "Say it, Katniss," he demands, his hands on the insides of my thighs, but not touching me where I want to be touched.

I whimper, trying to move against him, but he's holding me still. "Say it," he repeats, and my hazy brain tries to remember the correct words.

The first sound that escapes from my throat is something that resembles "plleeeeeeeee," disappearing into a long moan as I buck against him unsuccessfully.

"Say it," he says again, his grip on my thighs tightening. I don't know why it's so important for him that I say this now, say what I know I want him to do. I know that a degree of dominance role play in bed generally turns him on, whether the dominant one is me or him - but I can't help but think that there might be an additional level to this now. This is, after all, the first time we're being together without any form of birth control – and we both know it. This act could have consequences neither of us is really ready to think about. I take a deep breath as his fingernails dig into my thighs, I'll surely have bruises in the morning.

"Please fuck me, Peeta," I finally find enough breath to say, and he smiles back at me.

"You're so polite, Katniss, your mother would be proud," he whispers in my ear as he leans over me, and I can't help but laugh – this is something I'm definitely **never** telling my mother. Then all thought of laughing is over, as he plunges into me. My eyes roll back, and I feel him biting on my neck as he starts to pound into me. Rarely, if ever, have I felt him being this out of control. Not completely out of control, perhaps, but almost. I forget all thought or intention of trying to control anything, and just allow myself to follow his pace, to try to hang on. I know this can't possibly last long, considering how turned on he was before he even got undressed, and I'm not surprised when I feel my own orgasm approaching after just a few thrusts.

He must hear from my sounds that I'm close, he's so used to reading me now, because he groans in my ear as his pace picks up even more: "Come for me, Katniss." He thrusts deeper, even harder than before, and that's enough to send me spiraling over the edge. He muffles my scream with his mouth, my hands clutching at his back as he work furiously towards his own release, which follows shortly after.

He collapses on top of me, still making some shallow thrusts in the aftermath, it's as if his body is unable to stop. I know that he came inside of me, so incredibly deep, but my mind is blank, wiped clean by the power of the orgasm I just experienced. The insides of my thighs are slick with his seed, probably mixed up with my own juices.

Still lying underneath him, our heart rates decreasing steadily together, I revel in the feeling of his skin against mine, while trying to shut any other thought out of my mind. His right hand is stroking my hair, massaging my scalp in the most soothing way, then combing through my hair. His lips are somewhere by my cheek, I can feel him sort of kissing me there through his still heavy breathing.

"Forget my suggestion that we could just stop having sex," he murmurs. "Stupid. Worst idea I ever had."

Despite it all, I can't help but chuckle. "Do you think Snow had anticipated this when he forced us to sleep with each other on our wedding night?" Just saying it aloud feels rebellious, but I don't care. My body is warm and sated, my brain relaxed from hormones and endorphins.

I don't care.

Peeta just makes a grunting noise against my shoulder in response, I don't quite know if it's a chuckle or if he's just too exhausted to answer.

There are still so many things, so many people, Snow could take away from us. But Snow also **needs** us – he needs this one thing from us. He needs this baby. If he'd had complete control of events, he could've had us killed a long time ago. Yet he hasn't had us murdered, because he can't. He doesn't control every pawn in this game, some of the players have minds of their own. I don't pretend to think, even for one single second, that I am anything more than a pawn in someone else's hand – but even a pawn can be promoted to a queen. Who the queen on the board is at this point, though, is not clear, at least to me. And is Snow the king? I don't know. He does have power, more than anyone in Panem, but the king is slow and ineffective. Vulnerable, even. He can only move one step at a time, his hands are tied. He has to stop me, the Mockingjay, from transforming from a pawn to a queen, who can roam the chessboard more freely than any other piece. He's trying to do this by burdening us with a baby, the ultimate weapon against us.

Peeta withdraws from me. He's softening, and my insides clench around him as if trying to keep him there, but it only serves to push him out further. I can feel wetness following him, and never – perhaps aside from our first time together – have I been more acutely aware of the feeling of his semen. He lies down awkwardly next to me, the couch is narrow, so he draws me up to lie partly on top of him, partly by his side, pulling a blanket over us to keep our sweaty bodies from becoming cold.

He just stares at the ceiling, and I'm afraid to ask him what he's thinking, because I don't know if I'll like the answer. When his hand finds my lower belly, though, and he keeps it there, I know. Deep inside, below his hand inside my pelvis, is my womb. I vaguely remember the anatomic drawings from our Biology class, but even if I hadn't, I'd known because I can feel it contract during my most powerful orgasms. I know exactly where it is. Apparently, so does Peeta. He must've paid attention in Biology. "What have we done, Katniss?" he whispers, and the change from dark, dominating Peeta just a few minutes ago to this scared Peeta is so large that it brings tears to my eyes.

"I don't know," I whisper back. "I just know that it… Can't be helped."

He nods, slowly, as his fingers gently massage my lower abdomen. "I've imagined you… having my child. So many times. But it wasn't like this," he confesses.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "I know," I say. "A lot of things didn't turn out the way I thought they would. The reaping… The Hunger Games… What came after… Perhaps we should just stop thinking about what could've been, and instead… accept the reality that is our lives right now."

"Accept the way we're being used?" he asks, he sounds like he doesn't believe what he's hearing, and I realize I have to correct myself.

"No, not accept it as in thinking it's okay… But we can't live in a world that doesn't exist. We are Capitol pawns, but we can try to **live** within those boundaries. Make the best of things the way they are. And perhaps one day…" I don't dare to complete the sentence, but as I meet his eyes, I know that he understands what I mean: Perhaps one day, we'll be free.

I can't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks, and he holds me as I cry.

* * *

That night, I'm haunted by a horrific nightmare, possibly the worst one yet. I dream of a reaping, but it's not a regular reaping, with teenagers in their aged-matched pens. Instead, they are all babies, lying in the dirt. One of them is mine, but I can't find out which one, they all look the same. I frantically go from baby to baby, seeing their crying faces, their little hands which reach out for me, but I can't recognize my own baby. I realize I don't even know if my baby is a boy or a girl.

Then Effie is on stage, she's wearing my wedding dress, from the first Capitol wedding, and absolutely no make-up on. She draws a name from a glass bowl, and there is only one name in it, only one slip of paper. "Baby Mellark!" she cries out, her face radiant with joy, and I know I have to give her my baby. But which one is it? I keep looking, becoming more and more desperate as I know that I don't even know what my own baby looks like, but I know I have no choice, I have to give my baby to the Capitol.

I wake screaming, frantic. Peeta has to help me over to the window and hold me up while I breathe in the fresh night air, stroking my back while he tries to comfort me. It takes him a good 15 minutes to even make me listen to him, and through it all, I scream constantly. Haymitch comes outside to check on us. His lights are always on at night because he doesn't sleep until dawn, but when he sees Peeta there with me in the window, he goes back inside. My mother comes over to check on us, too, and by the time she comes, I have calmed down enough to stop screaming. I'm still not able to say anything coherent, but my mother is at least relieved enough to go back home, confident that Peeta is looking after me.

He holds me, never letting me go, for hours - until I finally fall asleep again sometime early in the morning, just before sunrise.

When I wake up again, the first thing I see, is Peeta's face. He is pale and drawn. The deep, dark rings under his eyes betray that he didn't get much sleep last night, if he slept at all. I didn't manage to tell him what I was dreaming about last night, but he must have understood that it was baby related. "Are you feeling better?" he murmurs, one hand still around my shoulder.

I nod slowly.

"Perhaps this was a really bad idea," he finally says, after a long pause.

I sigh. "We knew from the very beginning that it was a bad idea," I point out.

He closes his eyes. "Yes, it was." He just lies with his eyes closed for a long time, and I'm starting to think he's fallen asleep when he suddenly opens them, and I'm looking directly into his blue eyes. "Stay with me when I sleep? Watch over me?" He asks, and he sounds almost like a scared child.

"Always," I whisper, stroking his hair while I kiss his forehead.

"Thanks," he whispers, a faint smile on his lips. Within seconds, he's asleep.

* * *

**_Please review! :)_**


	20. Chapter 20: Deep in the meadow

**Chapter 20: Deep in the meadow**

Our sex life isn't back to normal, really – there are too many dark thoughts and fears for that. But at least we are back to something resembling normalcy when it comes to frequency, and when we are together, it is – thankfully – less frantic and desperate than before. He doesn't turn me down anymore, and I don't have to throw myself at him. We make it to bed on most nights, and don't sleep on the couch.

One day, I wake up to bloody sheets and familiar cramps in my lower abdomen. I quickly disappear into the bathroom to clean myself up and find some tampons, but I can hear from the bedroom how he takes off the sheets, knowing he's seen and understood. When I come out from the bathroom, he's sitting on the bed, now without sheets. He's looking at me with a strange look on his face, and I can't read him. I don't know what he's thinking, even though I know him so well. Finally, he says: "There's always next month," as he gets up, taking my hand.

I nod, looking down. There is next month. And then… There's the reaping.

I just need to get out, it feels like I can't breathe. That day, I pace along the fence, all around the district. Twice. Peeta bakes a small mountain of bread, I don't know where he gets the flour from, and arranges a party in the orphanage.

We don't talk about it afterwards – about the blood, about the fear, the disappointment - and also the relief.

* * *

Spring turns into early summer. The worst of the hunger has passed as somewhat more food is being shipped into District 12, and the steady stream of starving children coming to my mother's table has slowed down. I've shot just about every animal stupid enough to venture past the electric fence into District 12.

Prim turns 15. Peeta throws her a birthday party, complete with a cake with the most wonderful frosting I've ever seen. It's a work of art, even considering it's Peeta, he's truly outdone himself. Pale yellow primroses cover the entire cake, they look so true to life I'm surprised I can't actually smell flowers when I eat the cake.

Prim, despite the ordeals of the winter, is truly maturing into a young woman. She is so unlike the 12-year-old girl who I sang to before the reaping.

Her name will be in the bowl four times this year. That's four times the number it was when her name was drawn, nearly three years ago. I remember what it was like to stand on that stage, still hearing her screams ringing in my ears even after Gale, mercifully, had carried her away from the square. I was looking at Peeta, remembering when he threw me the bread and saved my life. Never could I have imagined that we would still be here, both of us, three years later.

Still alive.

Married.

Actually **loving** each other.

That I would be desperate to get pregnant with his child, a child I don't really want, in order to save Prim's life.

Again.

We sing the birthday song for her. We're not many – my mother, Peeta, Gale and his family, Madge, a few of Prim's friends from school. I don't notice that everyone stops singing halfway through, that I finish the song all on my own. I'm lost in the look on her face, the smile I know so well, the purity, her goodness. As I sing, I know it was worth it - all of it - just to make sure she would still be alive for this.

When ending the last note, I suddenly realize that everyone is silent, everyone is watching me. I blush, not sure what to say. Why did they stop singing?

"You sound just like your father," my mother whispers, and there are tears in her eyes.

That night, as we go to bed, Peeta seems even more eager than usual. I don't understand why until after, when I'm lying in his arms, sated and content. "I haven't heard you sing since that day when you song the valley song," he whispers, while kissing my back.

"That day you fell in love with me?" I whisper back.

I can feel that he nods behind me by the movement of his face against my back. He needs to shave.

"Will you sing for me again?"

I turn around, lying on my back now, close to him. He's still lying on his side, his hand draped over my hips. And without thinking, not really knowing why I choose that particular song, I sing to him, softly:

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow  
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow  
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes  
And when you awake, the sun will rise._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
Here the daisies guard you from harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I love you._

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away  
A cloak of leaves, A moonbeam ray, Forget your woes and let your troubles lay  
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
Here the daisies guard you from every harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I love you._

I don't know if I'm singing the song for Peeta, for myself, for Prim - or if I'm singing it for Rue, who never got to celebrate her 15th birthday.

* * *

When I start bleeding for the second time after the disappearance of my pills, the first thing I do, is look at the calendar. The reaping for the 77th Hunger Games is only a month away. I feel vomit rising in my throat as I realize this might have been our last chance. How patient is Snow likely to be? Did he truly expect us to conceive in just two cycles? Will he give us another year to try, or did I just sign Prim's death warrant in blood?

I have no one to turn to but my mother. Thankfully, Prim is at school. I tell her everything, and her first words are: "Katniss, it usually takes longer than just two months. You know that, don't you? It's perfectly normal."

"Does Snow know?" I whisper.

She sighs. "I don't know. But surely… If he'd wanted to be sure you'd be pregnant before the reaping, don't you think he would've… disposed of those pills earlier? Not just a couple of months before the reaping? I have to admit that she has a point, but Snow is so hard – or rather impossible – to predict. "I, uh…" My mother looks down at the table, she's suddenly finding it hard to meet my eyes. «I was sent… something. From the Capitol.» She gets up, and finds something in a drawer.

A box.

She gives it to me.

The box is fairly small, and at first I don't really understand what it is. There's a photo of some kind of plastic device on it, but it doesn't mean anything to me. Then I read the text. "Home pregnancy test."

"We don't usually have access to this in District 12, it's… well, Capitol made. But it's almost 100% reliable, and you can test quite early… Even a few days before your moon cycle should start." I know what this means. It means we have yet another chance before the reaping. Normally, my mother has to rely on the combination of a number of signs to diagnose pregnancy, many of which are unreliable, highly individual and non-specific, such as a missed period, swollen breasts and morning sickness. It often takes weeks, if not months, to be sure of whether or not a woman is pregnant. And being able to say that a woman is pregnant even before her moon cycle is delayed, is impossible.

"Thank you," I whisper to her.

"Don't thank me," she sighs. "You should thank whoever sent me that package… And frankly, I don't think that it's someone you'd want to thank."

* * *

The fear in Peeta's eyes that night when I tell him about the blood is unmistakable. We don't say anything to Prim – she's under enough pressure as it is already. I think she has a fairly good idea of what's going on, as she's getting older it's very difficult to keep anything from her. She's very bright, and what's more, she's very perceptive, too. The days when I could keep secrets from her, for her own good - even lie to her - are over. Having this new, nearly adult little sister is taking some getting used to.

We retreat as much from the rest of District 12 as we possibly can. Well, mostly I'm the one who's doing the retreating, Peeta still bakes and goes into town. He sees his family, including his mother, a few times, and on one occasion, she even comes over to our house. It's the first time she's been here since that infamous dinner party, long ago. She still hasn't apologized, at least not properly, but at least she doesn't refer to me as "the Seam brat", so that's something at least, I guess. She can't possibly know about Snow's ultimatum, but still she keeps going on and on about how I should conceive soon and what could possibly be wrong with me because I haven't. When she finally leaves, I escape to Haymitch's and end up getting drunk on white liquor with him. "I **can't** see that woman again," I slur to Peeta when I come home late at night, and he just nods, but doesn't say anything about my drinking.

I stay out of Gale's way, too. Partly because I don't want to draw attention to him, partly because even though there is nothing between us now, there **was** something earlier. A potential of some kind, something that could have been, in an alternate universe without the Hunger Games. In the world I'm living in now, however, trying to conceive a child with another man is what is on my mind all day, every day. As a result, speaking to Gale just seems too much. Too difficult.

One day, when I'm dropping off some squirrels and a bread, Hazelle tells me that he's secretly engaged to Madge. When Prim hears, she makes a bouquet of wild spring flowers and goes over to Gale's house, but I can't bear to go with her, although I ask Prim to convey my best wishes as well. How they are going to get around the fact that she is the mayor's daughter, and that he is quite possibly walking on very thin ice already, being somehow involved with the rebellion, is beyond me. I just know I need to stay away, for everyone's sake.

The mockingjay rarely brings happiness and peace, it seems. I only bring death and destruction.

As the reaping draws closer, I find it necessary to help Peeta with his ever more frenetic baking, just to stay sane. It's not just the possibility of Prim being reaped, and what will happen if I don't get pregnant – it's thinking of what happens if she **doesn't** get reaped as well. We have already lost four tributes – Den, Emilia, Linn and Mannor. Of the four of them, Emilia was the one I felt I knew the best – even though I realize I never truly knew her. It feels like every time I close my eyes, I see her lifeless body fall to the ground, being torn apart by bullets. Sometimes I think I can even hear the machine gun from afar when I'm pacing around the inside of the fence, I even hear it inside the house sometimes. I don't dare to tell anyone, things are bad enough as they are already. Haymitch begs us to increase his daily ration of liquor, and he looks so pathetic with his shaking hands and red-rimmed eyes that we give him an extra half a bottle a day. We can't save him from his demons or from the bottle, but we can try to keep him alive.

The night before the reaping, I take some Capitol pills in order to be able to get any sleep at all. Peeta refuses them, and I wonder who of us will regret our decision the most in the morning.

When I wake up from my haze, knowing I had nightmares last night but not remembering anything about them at all, I try to focus. I try very, very hard, but I don't manage to see anything around me clearly. Peeta is sitting in a corner, he looks as if he's asleep, but I'm not sure, I can just barely make out his features. Hovering above me I see Effie. "It's a big, big day!" Effie squeals, and I want to strangle her. I love her, in a twisted way I can't even begin to explain, but right in this moment I can't bear to hear another word from her.

"Get out!" I scream, stumbling out of the bed, falling on the floor at first, then finally managing to get up. Peeta looks up at me from his corner, his face is deathly pale. I don't think he got any sleep at all last night. "Get out!" I scream again, and I see from Effie's faces that she is scared, she didn't expect this reaction, she doesn't understand what's going on with me.

Neither do I.

I slam the door after her, and it's just me and Peeta, finally. The world is spinning, and I curse myself for taking those pills, for being so weak. "Are you okay, Katniss?" Peeta says, still sitting in that corner. Last night must've been really rough on him.

"Yes. No." I shake my head, willing the fog to go away. "Damn Capitol drugs. Please remind me never to take them again."

"That's what you said last time, too," he says, hollowly. "It didn't stop you last night."

There is nothing I can say to dispute that fact.

It feels like my bladder is about to burst, and I know what I have to do. The instructions were clear: Morning urine. With shaking hands I take the box out of the drawer. Peeta just nods slightly. I stumble into the bathroom, sitting down on the toilet while ripping the package open. How I manage to pee on the small, white stick in my half-drugged state I have no idea, but I do. As soon as I'm done, I leave the stick on the sink, wash my hands and go back to Peeta.

Sitting in a corner seems fitting somehow. It's Peeta and me, victors, hiding in a corner. Hiding from the world, hiding from a Capitol stick with urine on it.

I breathe deeply, in and out. In and out. Breathe, Katniss.

Breathe.

It's Reaping Day. It will be all over in a few hours. Surely they can't take her. Surely they can't.

"How long has it been?" Peeta asks.

"What?"

"How long since you took the test? It's supposed to take three minutes, isn't it?"

I wet my lips, trying to focus on his eyes. "Yes."

"Do you want me to go and check for you?"

"Yes." I don't think I can get up from the floor, anyway.

He goes into the bathroom. He's gone for quite a while.

Finally he comes out, the little white plastic thing in his hand, his expression unreadable.

"What?"

He doesn't answer, he just hands me the test.

There's a blue plus sign. My throat is dry, I vaguely remember reading the instructions, but in my current state I don't remember what the sign means.

"You're pregnant, Katniss."

He sinks down next to me. My head finds his shoulder, it's as if my neck is unable to keep the weight of my head up on its own. At first a wave of relief flows over me. Prim is safe. I know the house is bugged, Snow probably knows already.

And then another, terrible thought hits me: What have we done?

* * *

**_And the plot thickens! KatnissEverdeen916 sent me a PM saying she hoped I'd make Katniss pregnant in one of my stories - well, here you go! I'd like to thank all of you for your reviews (I love them, keep them coming!), favorites, follows and PMs. You can also follow me on Tumblr, I'm MockingJayFlyingFree there as well - I just might post a few spoilers as well. ;) _**


	21. Chapter 21: When the world stops

**_I just want to thank you all, once again, for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following ToM! I don't get around to answering all of your reviews, but I do read and cherish every single one. Thank you! I'm also really humbled that almost all the later chapters (posted in September) have more than 1000 unique visitors each this month. Wow! That's 1000 persons reading what I write, that's pretty amazing! From countries as diverse as the US, Vietnam, Bangladesh, Aruba and Saudia Arabia! Just gotta love the world of fan fiction. And the world of The Hunger Games, obviously._**

**_Okay, so onto chapter 21! At the end of chapter 20, as you may remember, Katniss and Peeta discovered that they were having a baby. Which would normally be a great thing. Except, of course, you're a victor. And if you're Katniss. _**

* * *

**Chapter 21: When the world stops**

We know we can't hold them off for long, our prep teams will be waiting. They'll be working on me in particular, of course – being a woman, there is always more pressure on me to look amazing for Capitol events than there is for Peeta. But we have to look perfect for the reaping – and frankly, just getting us to beauty base zero will take a lot of work this morning. Actually getting us to even approach Capitol standards will be an almost impossible task. Peeta looks like he hasn't slept in a week, and I'm still half-drugged, my pupils are enormous.

I suddenly feel guilty. It's not just me, not anymore. The drugs are affecting whoever is growing inside of me as well. I know I owe this baby a lot. I will hopefully owe Prim's life to it, and I already owe it the fact that I'm willing to risk my own child being reaped to save my sister. That thought is so horrific on so many levels that I just can't allow myself to go there.

I decide that the drugs and the drinking will have to stop. If I can't sleep, then I can't sleep.

But no more Capitol drugs. No more liquor.

"Let's not tell them quite yet," Peeta says, helping me stand up. I'm still dizzy, but a splash of cold water in my face in the bathroom helps at least somewhat. "Snow already knows." He pauses. "Don't you, Mr President?" he says aloud, looking expectantly at the walls.

I roll my eyes, but put the little white Capitol creation inside a plastic bag and hide it in my suitcase, ready for the train to the Capitol. I don't really know why - perhaps so that I can double check the result later, when I'm no longer on drugs and when I'll surely get paranoid about the test result. How I'm going to survive several weeks in the Capitol, mentoring in the Hunger Games, I have no idea.

My prep team fuss over me. They tell me I'm so thin and pale and drawn, tell me that my skin is dry ("you **must** remember to moisturize!"), they are shocked at the state of my eyebrows, how my nails are bitten down, not to mention my frizzy hair. I try to shut them out – I do care about them, and I know they care about me – a lot – but right now, the hair on my legs isn't really something I want to use my energy on. It's just not enough to shock me.

There is something different about them, though. There's something in Venia's eyes. In the way Octavia's hands shake when she's doing my nails. Her hands never shake. And Flavius is too quiet.

I'm too tired and hungover to ask questions, though. I allow them to do whatever they want with me, with their sprays, creams, lotions, waxes and glitter. They don't glam me up too much, though – they always save that for the Capitol. The reapings are somewhat more subdued, so we don't crash too much with the District 12 setting.

The dress is different, though. I instantly see that it's not created by Cinna. It's too… Capitol. It's clearly created by someone who doesn't know me. It's somehow not sophisticated, there is nothing of **me** in it, nothing of District 12.

It feels foreign.

"What's happened to Cinna? Has he been assigned to another district?" I ask. Venia goes pale, and suddenly it seems like none of them is willing to look at me. "Is he here?" I ask them, and Octavia shakes her head. She presses her lips together, and continues working on my nails. But her hands are still shaking.

I get the message. Don't talk.

I remember the last time I saw Cinna – after the toasting. How scared I was, that he'd be punished for creating the glowing wedding dress for me.

As we're waiting inside the Justice Building for the ceremony to begin, I'm pacing the floor. Peeta is slumped in a chair, his eyes never leaving my lower body, and Haymitch is drinking. Prim, the baby, Cinna, the reaping, going to the Capitol… I suddenly find that I'm longing for more pills, more of **anything** that could take me away from this place. I'm starting to envy Haymitch his bottle.

The reaping is eerily similar to last year. The relentless sunshine. The children in their pens, like sheep ready for slaughter. Effie's extravagant clothes. Haymitch's blood alcohol content is not the same, though, he's unmistakably pissed this year, I can smell the alcohol on him from several yard away. The fear in the eyes of the children is the same, as is that in their parents'.

The two guarded suitcases with the slips of paper with the names of all the children of District 12 aged 12 through 18.

Did Snow hear about my pregnancy in time? Or would he make sure Prim is reaped anyway? Or perhaps he never intended to reap her, at least not this year?

I see the peacekeepers pour the paper slips into the two bowls. And then Effie says the dreaded words: "Ladies first!"

And my world stops.

She chooses one slip of paper, more quickly than she did last year, there is less hesitation. She opens it, pauses – then says – "Renna Emmerson!"

I try to keep all emotion away from my face – it would be mocking Renna's parents to show my intense relief that Prim will get to live another year. Prim will get to turn 16. She will live another summer and winter, safe from the Hunger Games.

I almost miss the boy tribute's name: "Rayn Hanton!"

I see them together on stage – both are from the Seam, that's clear from their clothes and their black hair, as well as the leanness of their bodies. Rayn is 17, I vaguely remember him as one of the too many children living three houses down from us when we lived in the Seam before moving to the Victors' Village. Renna is 18, and she was a year below me in school, so I've seen her around. The odds clearly weren't in her favor – being reaped in the very last reaping for which she was eligible. If she'd just made it through today she would've been safe forever.

They both look like the careers will have them for breakfast.

We are whisked off to the train as the two teenagers say goodbye to their loved ones. I refuse to let myself think about it – I know it's selfish, I'm their mentor after all, but I have enough with my own problems right now. Besides, they will be dead anyway. Even if they had been career trained, there is no way that Snow will let a District 12 tribute win ever again. He won't allow us the satisfaction of mentoring a victor, nor will he allow us to set an example. The other districts have to see me and Peeta fail, again and again.

We meet Haymitch on the train. He's already found the bar, not surprisingly. We're waiting for the two tributes, then we'll leave District 12. For Renna and Rayn, it will most likely be the last time they'll see District 12. And for Peeta and me?

You never know.

"They are so screwed," Haymitch slurs. His drinking used to annoy me, but now I just feel sorry for him. He's never this drunk at this time of the day, not unless he's trying very hard to chase off some unusually persistent ghosts. In this case, it's not difficult to imagine just what he's trying to forget.

He pours himself another drink, and then he makes me one as well. "Saint Peeta over there doesn't drink, but I'm guessing you'll want one, sweetheart," he says, winking at me. I scowl thinking that he's starting to associate me with the need to chemically numb my brain already, but I have to admit to myself that with the amount of pills and alcohol I've been known to ingest, he may have a point. And now…

I shake my head. "No thanks."

His Seam gray eyes study me carefully, but I'm just looking out the window, ignoring him. "Well, suit yourself. More for me, I guess."

"So what's the plan?" Peeta says.

"Huh?"

"The plan. For the mentoring."

Oh. Haymitch and I had made pretty extensive plans to prepare for the 76th Hunger Games, but now… Nothing. We have given them up already, I realize guiltily. I've been too busy obsessing over making a baby to even consider that the lives of others are at stake here as well.

"I guess we have to follow the master plan we made last year," Haymitch says, rummaging through a cabinet for another bottle. "You know, since it worked so brilliantly last year." His voice is dripping with sarcasm, but the plan actually did work quite well. District 12 rarely has a tribute surviving long enough to be among the top 8, not to mention the last two.

Although that was probably more because of Emilia herself than our mentoring.

"They could surprise us, you know," Peeta says. "That's what Emilia did. She was someone else, someone much stronger, than she appeared to be at first."

Through the window I see Rayn and Renna approaching, together with Effie and a whole entourage of camera people, as well as a large crowd from District 12 – they have come to say goodbye. They hold up three fingers of their right hand in their honor as the two teenagers enter the train. They look so young and scared. "It doesn't matter anyway," I murmur. "They're going to die."

Oh, how I wish I could take that drink.

* * *

Effie is the only person making dinner that night nearly bearable, by trying to engage us in some kind of conversation. I'm acutely aware of the fact that Renna is only one year younger than me, yet I feel like I am an adult, and she is a child. They are both typical Seam children – they can't keep their eyes off the food, and after last winter, it's not as if I can blame them. I make sure they are both served second helpings, as they need to put on as much weight as they possibly can before they go into the arena.

I hadn't expected to be this hungry myself – I rarely am, not when I know that I'm on my way to the Capitol – but for some reason, I'm ravenous. I glare murderously at Peeta when he dares to take the last cheese bun after dinner. Haymitch snickers at me, and Peeta just looks puzzled by my reaction, but gives me the cheese bun, and peace is restored.

And through it all, I keep telling myself that I can't get attached to them. I can't let myself begin to like them, let alone to hope. If I am to have any chance of protecting myself in this, surviving mentoring Seam children destined to die year after year, I have to seal off the part of myself that cares. The part of myself that can be hurt.

That night, knowing I can't take any Capitol drugs to numb me, to perhaps take the edge off my nightmares or at the very least knock me out enough to get some sleep in between the screaming and thrashing, there is only one thing left for me to do.

When Peeta comes out of the shower, he seems surprised to find me stark naked in our bed. I tug his t-shirt, forcing him down on the bed, and I straddle him, kissing him deeply and greedily without any further explanation. He tears his mouth away from mine for a few seconds, trying to say something, but I silence him with another kiss, my hands already roaming his chest underneath the t-shirt. I can feel him hardening underneath me already, his erection rubbing me just where I like it the most. I grind my hips against his, increasing the friction even further, moaning into his mouth as I do so. His hands have already found my breasts, and I wince when I suddenly find that they are more sensitive than they usually are, almost sore. Peeta, always sensitive to my emotions, immediately senses this, and looks at me questioningly when I break the kiss. Then, suddenly, I find myself lying underneath him, he's flipped us both over and he's now pinning me down on the bed.

"Are you sure this is okay?" He whispers hoarsely in my ear as I touch hic cock over his boxer shorts, his hips buck reflexively against my hand as I do. "With the baby…"

I freeze for a second, then I nod slowly. "Yeah," I say to him. "All the pregnant women would ask my mother that… And she'd always say it was okay as long as they weren't bleeding, their waters hadn't broken – and they wanted to."

"And I'm guessing you want to?" he whispers, and I can practically hear the smile in his voice.

"Yes," I breathe back.

"Is it just to get some sleep, or is it… more?"

I can't lie to him. "You know it's more. But I also…" my voice trails off, I'm embarrassed to admit that I am also, to some extent, using him. "I also really need to sleep. And when I can't take any pills…"

"You should've stopped taking pills and drinking, anyway," he says softly. "I was worried about you. I don't want you to turn into Haymitch or the morphlings."

I'm offended at first, my initial reaction is to scold him for even thinking that I'll do that. Ever. But then I realize that he might be right. I'm not so different from them. I have chosen chemicals to escape from it all, on too many occasions. And the only thing that really differs, the one thing that separates me from Haymitch and the morphlings, is Peeta.

When I don't answer, when I'm just looking at him, he continues: "Promise me you won't."

"I promise."

I had perhaps expected this to be hard and fast, considering we're both hurting, we're both desperate, we are leaving our home and we don't know when we'll be able to return. We know what we'll have to endure in the Capitol. We know our tributes are going to die. And to top it all off, we found out less than 12 hours ago that we have just created the perfect weapon to be used against us.

It seems that despite my reassurances that I'll be okay, he's still taking extra care with me. Only when he's driven me mad with his fingers and his tongue and his lips, when I'm begging him to take me, does he enter me. And he fucks me slowly, lovingly, carefully, yet deeply and thoroughly. In fact, I'd call it making love instead of fucking if it wasn't for the fact that "making love" is a phrase that I, on principle, think belongs in books for old housewives. He's watching my face through it all, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, to inspect my face for any sign of pain or discomfort. When my eyes roll back in my head as my climax washes over me, he allows himself to come as well, spilling himself into me as I moan his name.

After, when I lie on his shoulder, desperately hoping sleep will come to me soon, he whispers in my ear: "How are you doing?"

"I don't know," I answer honestly, after a while.

"Do you feel… Any different?"

I consider his question. I haven't really had much chance to think about our recent discovery today. I fight the urge to find the hidden pregnancy test in my bag, to check if it's still positive. Perhaps it was just a mistake? Perhaps we didn't perform the test correctly? Perhaps I was too drugged to interpret the test result?

But I know I wasn't. And in any case, Peeta hadn't taken anything, and he was the first one to see the test result.

"I think… My breasts feel sore, heavier. Almost like I'm about to have my moon cycle, but not quite. And I was so hungry tonight, I couldn't help myself, all I could think of was food." Which perhaps isn't that unusual for a Seam kid, but still.

He nods. I'm surprised to feel that his right hand is sneaking down to my belly, resting very low there, near the hairline. I barely dare to breathe. "You're…" my voice breaks, I have to try again: "You're looking forward to this, aren't you?" He quickly looks up, guilt clearly visible on his face. "Oh, Peeta…" A tear rolls down his cheek.

"I wish it wasn't like this. I wish it was just us. I wish you'd do this because you **want** to have a baby with me."

"I know, Peeta, I know." I hold him while he cries in my arms. "I'm sorry I can't do this any better, I'm sorry I can't feel any other way."

"It's not your fault," he whispers in my ear as I fall asleep.

The nightmares are back with a vengeance, for both of us, but I manage to get some sleep at least. When I open my eyes the next morning, and find that I'm on the train, I just want to shut them and never open them again. I know, however, that's not an option.

I get out of bed. I feel funny, somehow… I look at my own reflection in the mirror, and I'm shocked to see how pale and drawn I am. My skin looks nearly translucent. Peeta doesn't look much better.

At the breakfast table, I'm still feeling… strange. My sense of smell seems off, it's as if I experience every single scent much more strongly than before. Haymitch's liquor. The scent Rayn set in the shower, or perhaps more accurately the one he was unable to turn off, not knowing anything about Capitol shower settings, lingering on his skin. Effie's perfume is threatening to suffocate me, I have to find an excuse to sit as far away from her as possible around the table.

But then, breakfast is served. An avox comes in with a large plate of egg and bacon, and as soon as the scent of bacon reaches my nostrils, I can feel my stomach churning desperately. The half glass of orange juice I already had makes a sudden and unexpected reappearance, along with stomach acid. I vomit, unable to stop or even to breathe, until there is nothing left. I just vomited on my plate and also partly on the tablecloth, in front of everyone. I'm absolutely mortified by the mess and the scene, and I stumble up, the chair falling behind me, crashing into the wall with a bang. My eyes wide open in fear, I back away from the table, away from the bacon.

Then another wave of nausea hits me, and my body tries to vomit again, but there is nothing left. I sink down on my knees, hands resting on the floor as I stand on all fours, my stomach trying to expel content that is just not there anyomre. All that comes out is just some gastric acid, burning through my throat. From the corner of my eye I see that everyone is watching me, stunned.

Haymitch is the first to speak. "She didn't drink last night, so she's not hungover. What the fuck, Peeta, have you knocked her up?"

"Shut up, Haymitch," Peeta hisses, crouching next to me.

"Katniss, love, what's going on?" He whispers to me.

"Morning sickness, kid," Haymitch says, as if he's some kind of expert on the field, which I know for a fact that he isn't.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, HAYMITCH!" Peeta yells at him, and Haymitch just rolls his eyes at him.

He doesn't look happy, though.

"I need another drink," he says, then leaves, presumably to continue his party in his room.

"I need to go," I whisper, and even as I try to get up, I vomit again.

I'm being about as discreet as Effie's make-up. There is no way anyone could think this is anything other than a pregnancy – so much for trying to keep this secret.

Back in our compartment, I try going to bed, but I end up crying over the toilet instead. Every sound, every movement, every noise, every smell seems to bring on another bout of vomiting. I've never felt more miserable in my life. Even when there is absolutely nothing left in my stomach, I keep retching, over and over again.

This day is only the beginning of the nightmare, but this time it's a nightmare which isn't just confined to the nights.

There is a doctor on the train, I suppose they couldn't risk their tributes getting sick or dying before they are scheduled to be killed, and Effie hastily summons him. He looks at the pregnancy test, looks at me lying in a pathetic, stinking heap by the toilet and simply says: "Hyperemesis gravidarum."

"What?" I croak.

"Intractable nausea and vomiting during pregnancy." He looks less than sympathetic.

"Morning sickness?" Peeta asks.

"No, this is a more severe form." And then he goes on to suggest fluid replacement therapy, antiemetics, vitamin supplementation. All I can hear him say in my head is: "Capitol drugs, capitol drugs, capitol drugs," and I scream at him through my retching to get out, not to lay his hands on me, that I don't want anything from the Capitol.

"Suit yourself," he sighs with a shrug. "You'll come crawling back to me in a few days."

I'm adamant not to, but pretty soon I'm beyond anything but trying to get even momentary relief from vomiting. I have to lie in a dark room, where there are no sounds and in particular no smells. Any and all sensory input provokes more vomiting. I try to drink some water and eat some dry, tasteless biscuits, but more often than not, everything comes back up.

When we arrive in the Capitol, it's immediately clear that I'm in no shape to wave and smile to the crowd, and I'm smuggled onto the 12th floor after the tributes and Haymitch have left the train.

Peeta actually carries me to bed, and I'm too exhausted to even open my eyes as he lays me down. Then I hear him gasp. I open my eyes slightly, enough to see two tanned hands hand me a red bucket. I know those hands. I know them very well.

"Cinna!" I manage to get out, even trying to smile. Then I look up at him, and what I see, makes me vomit again.

They've made him into an avox.

I scream even as I vomit, because I know this is because of me. This is his punishment for making me that dress last year. I look up at him helplessly as my stomach gives me a few seconds of rest. He is Cinna, but he's not. I know his old name is not to be mentioned anymore, he is not to respond or react to it, because the person that an avox used to be, is gone. Dead. I can see how he seems to have to make an extra effort when he's swallowing, that awkward movement is unfortunately well-known to me after spending all this time in the Capitol. But it's the eyes that are the worst. They must be doing something to them other than just removing their tongues, because Cinna is… changed somehow. He knows, and he remembers his old life, yet they have done something to him. Damaged him beyond repair.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper to him, and I can't help but think that we have both been reduced to these pathetic creatures by Snow – Cinna without a tongue, me with my head in a bucket while a baby I never asked for is growing inside my womb.

Both of our lives are in ruins.


	22. Chapter 22: The miner's daughter

_**I'll be updating pretty quickly now (chapter 23 is probably coming tomorrow), but after that you may have to wait for a while. It's because of the things that are happening in this story, which I obviously can't spoil for you. ;)**_

* * *

**Chapter 22: The miner's daughter**

Peeta barely leaves my side. He braids my hair when it gets too messy to keep it away from the vomit, he showers me several times a day, he tries to coax me into eating and drinking, and he tries to convince me to get medical help. "The doctor said this could go on for 20 weeks or more," he says. "You won't survive 20 weeks of this."

"This is all your fault, you did this to me," I moan, as I retch yet again. I know it's unfair and irrational, and I can see how hurt he gets, but I can't stop myself.

I'm unable to do any mentoring, that much is obvious, and Peeta isn't leaving me, so that leaves Haymitch to do all the work. I guess I should at least try to worry that our two tributes won't be getting much help, but all I can think about is myself and how incredibly rotten I feel. I get progressively worse as my dehydration gets more severe, but I still refuse any medical help. I'm sure everyone knows – all the other victors, and probably all of Panem, too. One night, I find the strength to ask Peeta if news of the pregnancy has been released, and the look on his face is answer enough. "They needed to explain why you weren't present at any of the parties and ceremonies. The media was having a field day when Snow issued the press release." That our families had to find out about the pregnancy by watching TV is almost unbearable.

Then, one day, when the door to the bathroom opens, I think it's probably Haymitch or perhaps Effie. I don't even have the strength to lift my head, but I blink my eyes against the bright light and see that it's peacekeepers - and what can only be medical personnel. I try to keep them away, but there's not much fight left in me. The strap me to a board and insert IV cannulas in both my arms, after complaining how hard it is to find good veins on me because I'm so dehydrated. I try to escape, to curse and tell them to go away, but I end up feeling a sting in my thigh, and then everything goes black. The last thing I think before I fade away is that they gave me something to drug me. Again.

* * *

When I come to, everything around me is white, and my first thought is that I've died and come to heaven.

Until I remember that Seam girls like me don't come to heaven.

And then I realize that even if I were in heaven, I surely wouldn't be feeling so sick, because heaven is supposed to be a good place. My throat is sore and dry, and when I try to speak, only some unintelligible sounds come out. "Katniss," a voice says next to me, and with difficulty I turn my head and see Peeta, sitting in a chair by my bed. Both my hands are strapped to the bed, and there is one large intravenous catheter connected to each arm. I look up, and see several IV bags with clear, yellowish and whitish fluids, all of which are being pumped straight into my veins, and there's nothing I can do about it.

He gives me a small ice chip to suck on, which helps for my dry throat and mouth, but doesn't upset my stomach enough to start vomiting again. "They told me to go easy at first, you need to start eating again slowly," he explains to me, and right then a nurse comes in the door. When she sees I'm awake, she starts prodding me and examining me, not really caring to talk to me. The only thing she says is: "The doctor will be here shortly to see you," then she disappears again.

"You've been unconscious for three days," Peeta murmurs.

"Three days?" I croak. "But… The Hunger Games?"

A shadow passes over his face. "Both of them are dead. They died by the Cornucopia." He looks down.

"Oh." There's not much to say, even if my voice had cooperated. Perhaps I'd have more to say if I'd actually let myself care about the tributes. If I'd gotten to know them, instead of spending day and night over a bucket or the toilet. Peeta takes a deep breath. "You've been really ill. I was so worried that…" His eyes are filled with tears now - if it's tears for me, or for Rayn and Renna, I don't know. Perhaps both. Before he has the chance to continue, the doctor comes in. Actually there's more than one, there are four of them, and two nurses as well, but there's no mistaking who's the boss.

He looks like he's about fifty, although it's always very difficult to tell with people from the Capitol. He has lue hair and neon pink teeth – that's a first, even though I thought I'd see a lot coming from these people. His face looks like he's had more than a few plastic surgeries. "Mrs Mellark, I'm so happy to meet you," he beams at me, and I have to suppress a shiver. "We are no strangers to celebrities here in our hospital, of course, but it's not every day that even I get to meet a true A-list celebrity. Although – can I share a secret with you?" There is only one possible answer to that question, even though I really don't want to know, so I nod. "I was on the team that helped bring you back to life after your appearance in the Hunger Games." By the way he's using the word "appearance," you'd think the Hunger Games was some kind of game show. "You were pretty beat up and dehydrated back then, of course, but you've been in much worse shape now. You need to start looking after yourself, Katniss, for your daughter's sake."

"Daughter?" I whisper.

He cocks an eyebrow, and smiles even wider. "Peeta didn't tell you?" He looks over at Peeta, who's blushing. "We did a total genome sequencing of the embryo. Orders from high up, obviously we couldn't risk your offspring being anything but perfect. You'll be happy to know that there are no chromosome abnormalities or genetic disorders, your embryo appears to be perfectly healthy – and that it's a girl who is going to have dark, curly hair and blue eyes. Quite a striking combination, don't you think?" He winks at me. "Expectant mothers in the Capitol like to know, it makes it easier to plan the baby's outfits. Color coordination is, after all, of considerable importance."

I'm appalled.

"There is also the birth to consider. I know I may be getting ahead of myself here, but I sincerely hope you'll consider this hospital for the c-section."

"C-section?"

"Yes, we've can't risk the baby being injured in a vaginal birth, can we? Besides, it's the way it's always done in the Capitol. It's just a lot less messy."

"That's not how it's done in District 12," Peeta objects. This is true, of course. In District 12, babies are born at home, with the help of either my mother or one of the two midwives. Babies and sometimes their mothers die at home, too, because there is nowhere else to go.

"This baby won't be born in District 12, it will be born in the Capitol, with every medical facility available should the need arise. You have nothing to worry about," he beams at us. "We can even throw in a tummy tuck at the same time if you wish. You will, of course, also be given our full body polish afterwards, and not one single scar or stretch mark will be left afterwards – it will be like the pregnancy never happened."

I can think of a million reasons why I'm not having my abdomen cut open by a Capitol doctor, but first things first. There is no use in discussing anything with this… creature. "When can I get out of here?" I ask.

"Your electrolyte levels are still not back to normal, so we'd like to keep you on the IVs for another day. I would also strongly suggest that you start taking anti-emetics daily. I don't know who you think you will be punishing by not taking them, I've been informed you were very much opposed to Capitol drugs before you were admitted to the hospital, but the only one who will be suffering is you. The baby will take the nourishment that it needs, regardless of your medical state – until you are nearly dead, of course." There is a clear warning in his eyes now. "I've been instructed to take very good care of you, Mrs Mellark, and I certainly intend to." Yeah, or they'll turn you into an avox. "Is that clear?"

I nod. I'd probably agree to marry his grandmother just to get out of this place as soon as possible.

* * *

Going back to the 12th floor nearly feels like going home – I hate being there, but anything is better than a hospital where they strap you to a bed and then inform you that you have to have a c-section.

I'm certainly feeling better, although I still vomit at least 10 times a day, despite their fancy Capitol drugs. I guess they don't really care about funding research to alleviate something as trivial as a disease of pregnant women, when the war on wrinkles is immensely more important. I still spend most of the day in bed, with the blinds down and the lights off, but at least some food and water stay down now. I know that if I don't manage to stay sufficiently hydrated, I'll be back to the hospital in no time, and that gives me enough incentive to force down water and the sticky, disgusting energy drinks they provide me with, even though all I really want is to hide underneath the sheets and never come out.

When we are finally alone that night, Peeta says: "I have something to show you." He finds an envelope in a drawer and gives it to me. His hands are shaking.

"What is it?"

"Just open it."

The last time I opened an envelope, I ended up having a mental breakdown in a basement, so I'm feeling rather reluctant, but after bracing myself, I open it. The content nearly makes me vomit, again.

It's a photo, of what is clearly a human embryo. I don't know how they took it – it's a bit fuzzy, and the surface of the skin looks uneven, like the resolution of the camera wasn't very good. "They called it a… scan? They took the photo through your skin," he explains. "I don't really know how they did it, but…" I turn the photo around, and on the back it's written in an unknown hand: "7.5 weeks."

I look at the picture again, stunned.

So this is my daughter.

It all just feels alien to me. I look at the tiny hands, the fingers are just about starting to develop. The strange shape of the head, the dark eyes that don't look human quite yet. The heart looks massive, nearly outside the body.

I hand Peeta the scan and throw up again.

When I'm finally able to look up, he's standing there staring at the photo, mesmerized.

* * *

While I'm still hiding in our room, trying to force down biscuits in my haze of never-ending nausea, we have a new victor – the victor of the 77th Annual Hunger Games. It is, not very surprisingly, a career – an 18-year-old boy called Silver from District One. Haymitch says he impaled his opponents with a massive spear. I throw up, and Peeta scolds him for telling me.

I've been surprised that they never even tried to make me take part in any of the usual victor activities. I guess I've just been too ill, but now after my hospitalization, there is no escaping the Victor Banquet. Peeta tries to get me out of it, but it turns out there is nothing he can do.

The prepping is one of the saddest things I've ever seen. My prep team is shattered – Flavius, Venia and Octavia are all practically bawling their eyes out, and between Cinna waiting on me and the way I look after vomiting for practically one month, I can't really blame them. I have become somewhat used to Cinna being around me all the time – no, not Cinna. The avox whose avox name I still don't know. I think it would've been even harder if I hadn't been so ill – I've had more than enough just trying to survive, Cinna's fate isn't something I've had the strength to think about. But my prep team hasn't been around him much, and they are clearly shocked. My new designer, a Capitol fool with purple skin named Xantos, just drifts around me, but I don't pay attention to him. I sit with my eyes closed most of the time, the window is open by my orders so I can get some fresh air and hopefully stop myself from throwing up. I've banned all use of perfume, and Flavius complains that he can't use the regular hair products that he prefers. Peeta is watching them all like a hawk, though, so they don't dare to go against my will. When I finally open my eyes, I'm shocked at what I see. I haven't really looked at myself in a mirror since we left District 12, and what I see now scares me.

I don't think I've been this thin since I nearly starved to death when I was just a child. My skin is almost translucent, I'm so pale it looks like I've never seen the sun. My eyes are dark and deep in my skull. My hair was so matted that Flavius had to cut away quite a lot of it, so it's shorter and thinner than I'm used to. It's dull and lifeless. About as dull and lifeless as I feel.

Xantos had made a garish pink dress for me, but he has a massive fight with Peeta over it, which ends with Xantos leaving the room screaming profanities. Venia comes up with another dress – clearly one made by Cinna.

I can't even look at him when I accept it.

It's far too big for me now, it must've been made for me last year, and I've lost so much weight these last few weeks. But to my surprise, Cinna comes to my aid. He takes it in, it only takes him ten minutes by the sewing machine, and then it fits me perfectly. The dress is black, with a red stripe that goes down from my back, spiraling around my body several times going down the dress, down to the hem of the skirt.

As I look at myself, I meet Cinna's eyes in the mirror. So there is something of the old Cinna left in him after all. My eyes fill with tears, and to my shock, so do his. I quickly blink them away, I can't risk endangering Cinna again. He's already lost so much because of me.

"I look like death incarnate," I try to joke, and I do – beauty base zero is impossible now in the state I'm in. This is the best they can do, and it will just have to be enough. I have to admit to myself that all things considered, I don't look that bad. Venia, who's done my make-up, decided to just work with my paleness and the dark rings underneath my eyes. She has applied a thick layer of eyeshadow, it's the color of dark coal. A hint of shimmer brings out what little light there is still left in my eyes after nearly four weeks of hell, living in a constant haze of nausea.

I look dark. Dark and scary and unforgiving.

Perfect.

That's who and what I am.

I take a double dose of my anti-emetic medicine, and brace myself for what is to come. This will be the first time I'll meet the other victors this year. Snow will be there as well, and how I am to survive the rose stench in the state I am in now, I have no idea.

"This is a really, really bad idea," Peeta says.

"I know."

* * *

Peeta steps out of the limo first – which is not proper according to Capitol etiquette, but he's afraid I won't be able to stand up if I get out of the limo first. He has a good point, and besides, I never cared about Capitol etiquette, anyway. Effie, who to her dismay is banned from the party, will probably scold us for this tomorrow.

When I step out into the flashlights, held up by Peeta's hand alone, a gasp rips through the crowd of journalists, photographers and spectators. I know that this is being transmitted live to every corner of Panem, but I don't acknowledge the cameras for even one single second. The crowd grows silent, and I don't dare to look at Peeta. When we have done this before, they have always gone crazy as soon as they saw us. What is different now?

I can't look around, all I can focus on is how I must not faint, how I must not vomit, how I must get through this, one way or another. My knuckles are white as I cling to Peeta's arm. He looks at me, and our eyes meet. His lips hidden in my hair, he whispers in my ear, nearly inaudibly: "Mockingjay."

And then I realize what they all see. They see me as the mockingjay – I may be injured, but I am even deadlier as a result of it. The dark anger I saw in my eyes in the mirror must still be there. I give him a smile, and then we walk up to the entrance of the President's Mansion together. Everyone just stares at us, the silence is eerie.

I am Katniss Mellark. I was made of fire and coal and anger. I am unforgivable.

As we enter the ball room – they don't hold the party outdoors after the disaster last year – it happens again. The chatter stills. Every head turns around to look at us. The crowd parts as we walk across the room. I just follow Peeta, I don't know where he's leading us, I don't have the energy to do anything but stay upright and try to look as unforgivable as I can. Then I see him – actually, I smell him before I see him. The stench of roses and blood and death makes my stomach revolt, but I furiously try to fight it, I can't make a fool of myself and vomit here, now, in front of Snow. He can't see what he's done to me, what a wreck he's reduced me to being.

I realize with a start that by doing this, by walking right up to Snow as soon as we arrive, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, Peeta is staking our claim. We act like we are royalty – like the kings and queens of kingdoms long lost, kingdoms we used to read about in old fairytale books. Snow is drinking from a glass of champagne, and he looks worse than I remembered. I must not be the only one who's having a bad year.

There are also a larger number of peacekeepers present than I had expected. Certainly a lot more than there were last year. And they are all armed with automatic weapons – which they weren't last year.

I stop when we're a relatively safe distance from Snow, I can't risk him greeting me by shaking my hand or – even worse – kissing me on the cheeks. I feel dizzier than usual just standing here with him nearby. If he comes up close to me, enveloping me in his stench, I'll surely vomit all over him.

Not that he doesn't deserve it.

"Mr and Mrs Mellark, such a pleasure to see you."

"Mr President," Peeta says, but he doesn't bother to say anything else.

"Katniss, I heard you were ill. I'm glad you must be feeling better."

Yes, I've been ill, and you know all about it as you even have the entire genome of my child, the one you forced me to conceive, lying on your desk. "I couldn't miss this," I say, my voice low. "Not after all the fun we had here last year."

Did I manage to startle him? I think I did - isn't that surprise I see in his eyes for just one split second, before he carefully conceals his emotions again? He must have expected a broken, ill Katniss, made weak by pregnancy. Instead what he sees is a mockingjay that is more dangerous than ever.

"I don't believe you have met our new victor yet?" Snow asks, perhaps eager to change the subject. He introduces me to Silver Prance, who is 18, blond and utterly handsome and perfect in every way, like all District one boys seem to be. His blue eyes roam my body, and there is something close to disgust in his eyes.

"Pleasure to meet you," Peeta says politely, but there is an edge to his voice, and I'm sure Snow hears it as well. Peeta is becoming more and more reckless. He shakes hands with Silver, but I can't go close to Snow, so I don't. I guess I'm becoming more and more reckless as well.

"I hear a new victor baby is in the making," Silver says. "Congratulations."

I smile, and I think the smile is closer to a sneer than anything else. "Thank you. You know, being a victor certainly has its ups and downs," I say dryly.

The scent of synthetic roses is drifting in my direction, and I know I need to go outside, or to the toilet, whichever is closer. I don't even bother trying to come up with an excuse, I just turn and run towards the nearest bathroom, as fast as my wobbly feet can carry me. I barely make it, and the biscuits make their reappearance – again.

Afterwards, I sit on the toilet lid, breathing deeply, trying to put off going back in there for as long as possible. I know Peeta must be getting worried, though. Just as I have almost gathered the courage to leave the cubicle, I hear another person run into the one next to me, followed by the tell-tale sounds of someone vomiting. That's not exactly a surprise, considering the vomiting-inducing drug the vile people of the Capitol take to be able to eat more food. They usually go to a separate room constructed specifically for the purpose, though, not to the bathroom. I get up, unlock the door and wash my hands, looking at myself in the mirror. My burning eyes nearly scare even myself, with all the make-up. Katniss, the girl on fire, the miner's daughter.

In the mirror, I see the person who was vomiting next to me – and it's not who I thought it would be.

It's Annie Cresta.

Speechless, I just stare at her, and my eyes meet hers in the mirror. Annie would never take the vomiting drug to be able to have a second (or twenty-second) helping. And she doesn't drink.

She's pregnant, too.

Her scared look as she sees that I've understood confirms it. So Peeta and I aren't the only ones with a sword hanging over us. Annie and Finnick – because there is no doubt about who the father of this baby is – are in even more trouble than Peeta and I are, although I didn't think it would be possible.

I don't say anything, although I strongly suspect that Snow already knows. I just give her shoulders a light squeeze as I leave, knowing I have to endure at least a few more hours of the party.

"It's burning, Katniss," she says, and I turn around, meeting her eyes. They look strangely distant, and I wonder just how crazy she really is.

"What is burning?"

"Everything. Everything."

What does she know?

I find Peeta and Haymitch with Johanna, Chaff and Finnick. Finnick looks paler than usual, and I'm pretty sure I know the reason for it now. The Capitol won't want to see their very lucrative male prostitute have a baby with a half-mad victor. If they are lucky, Annie and the baby will be hid away in District four somewhere. If they are not lucky…

"It's good to see you, Katniss, we've missed you this year," Johanna says, and she actually sounds sincere. She's not naked, either, which I guess is an improvement – and a of sign just how bad things must be. "Congratulations." She looks a bit apprehensive as she says it, probably knowing there's not much to congratulate us for. "Are you feeling better?"

"No," I say flatly. "I just had a prolonged date with the toilet. Again."

"Well, you look…." Her voice trails off, and I can think of a number of words to describe myself – horrible? Hellish? Starving? Half-dead?

"Glowing?" I suggest with a grin, and she smiles back, guiltily.

"You look like hell," she chuckles. "But that's not all bad."

"How can looking like hell possibly be a good thing?" I ask her.

"Well, it depends on just who you'd be hell for," she says dryly, and looks over at Snow, who's talking with some Capitol business men who I know for a fact are disgustingly rich. "Remember after your wedding night, when I told you to be careful? Well, the days of being careful are obviously over." She looks down at my belly and winks at me, but I know she's not really talking about the baby – because she wasn't talking about birth control back then, when she told us to be careful. She told us to be careful with Snow.

And I know that while I've been stuck in District 12, isolated and scared, and now while I've been battling hyperemesis and an unwanted pregnancy in the Capitol, the rebellion has not only survived. It has grown and evolved. And if Snow wanted to show Panem a meek, subdued pregnant Katniss Mellark tonight, he has underestimated me – again.

Instead, he's shown all of Panem that the girl on fire is now burning with hatred.

* * *

**_Just a few comments on some of the reviews - some of you weren't logged in, so I couldn't send you PMs. In general, it's quite interesting to see that some of you think that being an avox is at least better than being dead, while others think quite the opposite. I'm not sure personally - I think in Snow's universe, it's probably less of a punishment than being executed, but I think it may be even worse to be an avox. Anyway, I thought the dress Cinna made for Katniss in this fic was probably marginally less offending to Snow than the mockingjay dress in Catching Fire, so I thought I'd make the punishment a bit less severe. But perhaps even more terrible, depending on what you think._**

**_To willow: Thank you, thank you, thank you! Your review made me so happy!_**

**_Anyway, I hope you liked it, please review! :)_**


	23. Chapter 23: Fire is catching

**_I promised you another quick update – well, here it is! You might have to wait a while for the next update, though. The storyline is getting pretty complex, so I have to stay quite a few chapers ahead in case I need to go back and change something._**

**_Also, I thought I'd write a few words about hyperemesis gravidarum. You might think that I've exaggerated how ill Katniss is, but I haven't. I've never had it myself (thank God, "all" I had in my pregnancies was a terrible 24/7 nausea for a month or so, and even that was enough to completely destroy me), but a friend of mine did. She was terribly ill, and it truly was a nightmare (and she wanted to be pregnant! Imagine what it's like for Katniss!). Hyperemesis can actually be even worse than chemo (or so they say). So yes, it's very possible for a pregnant woman to get as ill Katniss is in this fic (unfortunately, poor Katniss, I'm so sorry for doing this to you)._**

**_The sentence in italics is from the Mockingjay epilogue._**

* * *

**Chapter 23: Fire is catching**

I pay the price for overexerting myself at the party. For the entire train journey back home to District 12, I'm very, very ill. It's almost as bad as it was before I was hospitalized, and to my dismay I actually have to come crawling to the disgusting doctor on the train, the one who was the first to diagnose me with hyperemesis. I have to ask him to give me some fluids intravenously, as I know now that I need fluids to end – or at least slow down - the vicious circle of vomiting–dehydration–more vomiting.

When the train finally arrives in District 12, we're met by a disturbingly high number of peacekeepers, very few of whom I can remember having seen before - and the families of the fallen tributes. We watch in respectful silence as their coffins are being unloaded from the last car.

At home, we are met by my mother and Prim. The first thing I do when I come inside, is vomit on the floor. "What's happened to you, Katniss?" Prim asks me as my mother is steering me towards a chair. At this point I can barely walk. "We saw you on TV. You looked horrible."

"Thank you very much," I murmur.

My mother, of course, has seen this all before. She inspects the Capitol drugs I've been given, and I'm ashamed when I admit that I'm still taking them.

Although it's good to be home, there are two large, dark clouds on my horizon. One of them is the nausea, which just won't pass. There is no escaping from it, and now that it's lasted for more than one month, it's seriously wearing me down. I am stupid enough to ask my mother when it usually stops, and when she answers "12 weeks", I'm instantaneously relieved. I'm almost ready to start counting down the days until I reach 12 weeks. I can do three more weeks, I really can. But when she continues with telling me that she's had several patients who have been sick for nine months, I seriously consider throwing myself against the electric fence, because I cannot survive nine months of this. I curse the baby, I curse Snow, curse Peeta, curse Haymitch and my mother and Prim and everyone I can think of.

The other problem I'm facing is the increased surveillance from the Capitol. The only condition that I was allowed to return to District 12, was that I'd agree to being examined by an OBGYN every week. They even posted a Capitol OBGYN here – a Dr Hanna. And he's not here because he's pissed off someone or perhaps even killed someone, unlike the only resident District 12 physician - Dr Hanna here because he's very good at his job. He must hate being here, I hear him referring to District 12 several times as a "hellhole", but I'm pretty sure I'm his ticket to a great medical career in the Capitol, so I don't feel that sorry for him.

This baby is very important to Snow. It must be taken well care of.

I am also obliged to return to the Capitol when I am eight months pregnant, for a scheduled c-section at 38 weeks. I consented to it just to be allowed to leave the Capitol at all after the 77th Hunger Games, but this is one of the things that I'm going to try to get out of somehow. I **must** get out of it.

I can see that they worry. Prim, my mother, Peeta, Haymitch. They try to make me go outside, even just to sit on the porch. I refuse, staying inside our dark bedroom almost all day. They try to make me eat. All I'll eat are some dry, bland biscuits and multivitamins, the latter only because Dr Hanna is threatening to send me back to the Capitol if I don't take them. Peeta bakes a mountain of cheese buns, but I just turn away. They force me to shower every day, and more often than not, Peeta has to shower with me, because I make no effort to do anything myself. My hair is matted from lying down so much, as well as from twisting and turning when I'm having my nightmares, and I don't remember the last time I combed it. They try to speak to me, but I rarely answer, and if I do, it's mainly just "yes" or "no". I know they worry about my weight, and I can see in the mirror – on the rare occasions that I do – that I'm not exactly a blossoming mother-to-be. I look like I've starved all winter. Dr Hanna doesn't intervene – he checks up on the baby every week, and finds out that it's fine. I refuse to think of it as "her" - in my head, it's just an "it". Something growing inside of me, unwanted ever since its conception, the thing that's making me feel so sick. He says the baby will take what it needs at this point, and if I don't make an effort to eat more for my own sake, that's really my problem.

* * *

12 weeks come and pass, but the nausea doesn't subside. I'd consider that trip to the electric fence now, if only I'd had the strength to even go downstairs. Our bedroom has become my prison. I can see that this is eating Peeta up. That he, too, is becoming a thin, pale shadow of himself. Sometimes he cries when he begs me to try to eat just one cheese bun, and I feel so guilty for putting him through this, but I can't help it. The nausea is eating me up, destroying everything that I am, it's all I can think about. I have long conversations to the little life growing inside of me, where I oscillate between cursing it and crying, begging it to just stop making me feel so sick. After cursing it, which always ends with me telling it that I don't want it, that I want it to die, I end up crying because I feel so guilty about not wanting my own baby. I know I'll make a horrible mother, and that my baby will never have the chance to live a long, happy life because it was unlucky enough to have me as its mother.

At 15 weeks, I can see my belly starting to swell. This would've been unbearable, if it hadn't coincided with the nausea becoming somewhat less intense. I still stay inside, but the electric fence seems less tempting. The first time I accept a cheese bun and tentatively eat half of it, Peeta actually cries from joy. That night, he holds me tight for the first time in months. I haven't been able to bear his touch until now, as his hands touching me, especially near my neck or my belly, would bring on another bout of vomiting. But now, I find that I can actually have him touch me without my stomach revolting. "I've been so scared, Katniss," he confesses to the darkness. "I thought you'd die. I thought you **wanted** to die. And it's my fault, if we hadn't…" He's unable to continue.

I can't lie to him – I've thought that I'd die, too. And I certainly have wanted to die. **Anything** would be better than the burden of intractable nausea and vomiting, combined with constant nightmares and being pregnant with a child I don't want. But I can't tell him that, so I just evade it. "It's not your fault," I whisper.

His hand travels tentatively down to my belly, and finds the swell there. I'm so thin that it's very noticeable. His breath catches. "Is it…?"

I nod tiredly, knowing he can't see me, but that he can feel my movements.

"Oh." He's silent for a long, long time, his hand resting on my belly. "That's amazing."

Tears roll down my cheeks. At least this baby will have one good parent, I think, but that's another thing I can't tell him.

* * *

At 18 weeks, when I'm eating cheese buns and even other food on a regular basis, I feel a flutter. It's more of a tickling sensation, really. Of something deep inside my belly, far down. I freeze, concentrating on the feeling, which is gone as quickly as it appeared. I'm not used to actually trying to sense something about the baby, I usually try my best not to ignore everything that is pregnancy related. I hold my breath, and suddenly – there it is again. A tiny flutter, like the wings of a butterfly.

Slowly, my right hand moves down to my lower abdomen, to cover the place where I felt it. For the first time in months, I feel something that is not dread or nausea or fear. I can't quite say, even to myself, what exactly it is that I'm feeling. But at least I feel **something**.

Then it happens again, and the feeling is replaced by another, which I know all too well: Terror. A _terror that _feels_ as old as life itself_.

When I hesitatingly tell Peeta that night, he touches the growing swell on my stomach wonderingly. Then he surprises me by moving down in the bed until his face is at the level of my belly. For a split second I think he'll continue lower and go down on me, and I don't know if I can take it. We haven't been intimate since the nausea set in, and I don't know if I'm ready for this. I open my mouth to tell him, but to my astonishment I hear that he starts talking.

He's talking to the baby.

I just listen, amazed. He tells the baby how much he loves it, how much he can't wait to see it, to hold it. How he will teach it to bake and I will teach it to hunt, and it will have a loving aunt and two fun uncles and even an older cousin. He talks of sunshine and snow and flowers, of the wind and the smell of freshly baked bread. "All the good things in life, we'll give you," he whispers.

When at last he is finished talking, when he's face to face with me again, he gives me a quick kiss on the lips, probably afraid I'll start throwing up if he kisses me longer. Our hands find each other, and I fall asleep feeling nearly safe.

* * *

It's the first day I've been outside in months. I feel almost… happy. I feel the wind on my face, and I think that I have to do something about my hair – cut off most of it, probably. It's so matted, I've tried to conceal it by braiding it, but I don't think it can be saved. Months of neglect and bed rest due to the nausea has all but ruined it. My muscles are still weak, and my bump is hidden underneath my dad's old hunting jacket, but I can still feel almost like before. I even shoot a squirrel – it's not much of a meal, and I can't bring myself to skin it, just thinking about it makes me feel nauseous again, but I take it home and let Peeta do it for me. He's usually quite squeamish about blood and entrails, but he lights up when he sees me with a squirrel in one hand and the bow in the other, and gets to work without complaining. He makes squirrel stew - there's a lot of vegetables and little squirrel in it, but it still tastes wonderful.

Like home.

Yes, I almost feel… happy. When I'm inside the house, one of Peeta's oversized t-shirts conceals my belly, which makes it easier to ignore. That night we sit by the fire, Peeta reads to me from a fairytale book while I lie with my head in his lap, drowsing.

Later I'd think that if I had only known that this would be it - that this was the day when everything in my world would change - I would've appreciated this day even more. This day of almost feeling happy. Of wind and squirrel stew and reading by the fire.

* * *

Just as we are about to go to bed, Haymitch barges in. I've never seen him like this before – his eyes are wild, and I can tell it's not from drinking.

He's not wearing shoes. Even though it's October.

"You've got to come – now!"

"What…" Peeta starts to say, but Haymitch cuts him off:

"Not now. No questions. Run!"

I spring to action before Peeta does, quickly picking up my bow and arrows, slipping on my hunting boots and my father's jacket. Whatever it is, it's bad, and I want to be armed and prepared.

I wasn't a victor by chance.

"We have to leave. It's all coming down!" Haymitch pants.

"What's coming down?" I yell as he's already by the gate. He turns around and looks at me.

"District 12!"

I feel myself running over to my mother's house without really thinking, my body is acting on its own volition. The door is locked, but I hammer my hands against it, shouting for my mother. She opens the door, clearly ready to go to bed. "Where's Prim?" I gasp, and behind me Haymitch shouts: "We need to go, Katniss!"

Far away, I hear the sounds of hovercrafts.

"Not without Prim!" I shout back, and Prim must have woken up from all the commotion, because just then she runs down the stairs just wearing her night dress. "Come!" I yell, and thankfully they don't question anything, they don't even put on their shoes, they just follow me.

"Where are we going?" I ask Haymitch while we run, I can barely get the words out, my body is so out of shape from months of vomiting. Haymitch must be just as bad, his body battered by years of alcoholism.

"There," he gasps, and then I see it, above the field.

A hovercraft.

The markings and colors of the hovercraft are nothing like I've seen before.

It's not from the Capitol.

"Haymitch, what is this?" I demand, stopping. He stops, too, holding my face between his hands, forcing me to meet his bloodshot eyes.

"Katniss, do you trust me?"

The hovercrafts are coming closer.

"Yes."

"Then go."

And we run. The force field of the ladder freezes us as we touch it, the feeling is all too familiar and all too scary. I looked down as I was frozen, and I can't move a muscle now, so I can't see anywhere else but directly down on the ground.

But I do hear. I hear a sound I've only heard on TV before, yet I instantly know what it is.

Fire bombs.

Below me, as we enter the hovercraft and the doors shut below us, I can just about make out a change in color. The previously black ground has been lit up in the darkness, from reflections of fire.

As we are released from the force field of the ladder, I scream. A crazy, mindless, desperate scream. The others are silent, and I know that I'm the only one who has understood, **truly** understood what is happening. Haymitch sinks down on my knees beside me, clutching my shoulders, and I realize that he also knows – he **knows**.

I look around, distantly noting that the inside of hovercraft is similar to that of a Capitol hovercraft, yet the colors are different. It looks more shaggy, worn. The uniforms of the people manning it are different, too. They are drab, functional, not fitting very well. It is as if they have been assembled from different sets of uniforms, without trying very hard to match them to the size of the person actually wearing them.

They look at me with awe in their eyes.

I scramble to get to a window, Haymitch tries to stop me, but he's too slow. As we pick up speed, I cling to the windowsill and look out, and what I see is a sight that will haunt me forever.

District 12 is on fire.

I see the fire licking up over the Justice Building, the biggest building in District 12. I can just about make out the place where the Mellarks' bakery used to be. There is only an inferno of flames there now. And the Seam… It was permeated by coal dust, dust which has seeped into everything and everyone.

The Seam is like a gigantic ball of fire.

A terrible scream is ripped from my throat, as I realize that there can't be any survivors, there is no way. This is the funeral fire of District 12. Everything that we know and love is gone. The five of us – Peeta, Haymitch, Prim, my mother and I – are all that's left.

_There is no District 12._

A sudden flutter deep inside my belly reminds me that we are actually six.

Haymitch comes up next to me, and he watches the fire disappearing fast behind us as we fly into the darkness. Tears are streaming down his face.

How did he know? Where are we? Who are these people? Where are we going?

There are so many questions, but I only manage to say one word: "Where?"

His face still reflecting the fire, he answers: "District 13."

* * *

**_So this is the point where we are officially leaving alternate Catching Fire, and entering alternate Mockingjay territory. My alternate version of Catching Fire is quite different from the original, as Peeta and Katniss not being reaped for the Quarter Quell was really the premise for the story. The Quarter Quell made up a substantial part of the book, so obviously a lot of things didn't play out the way they did in the books._**

**_However, now that we're entering an alternate Mockingjay - two years later than the events taking place in the original - you may find that there are more similarities to the book. Although there are, of course, major and crucial differences – such as Katniss being pregnant (obviously), and Peeta not being captured and hijacked by the Capitol. How will it all play out? To tell you the truth, I'm not quite sure myself yet! LOL At this point I'm still trying to figure out which characters to kill!_**

**_Finally, there is one last thing I feel I should share. One reader wrote that, being a mother, it was distressing to read about Katniss not caring about her baby, although it was understandable considering the circumstances. I agree. I'm a mother, too. I also have personal experience with depression during pregnancy. My reasons were not at all like Katniss' reasons, but I know just how devastating it can be to suffer from a depression while being pregnant (or a post-partum depression for that mater, I've tried that, too - "lucky me"). In the epilogue of Mockingjay, Suzanne Collins writes that Katniss' first pregnancy in particular was very hard for her, and I can definitely relate to that. I also imagine that in my alternate storyline, with Katniss being pregnant with a child she never asked for (unlike in Mockingjay, where it took her a decade or longer to come to the decision herself that she wanted to have a child with Peeta), the effect on her mental health would be even more devastating. I feel very strongly for Katniss when it comes to this, as I have – in some ways – been in her shoes. When I'm writing this story, I'm not writing about myself, it's all Katniss. But I have woven some aspects of my own experience with depression during pregnancy into the story. You're not supposed to be depressed when you're pregnant or post-partum, you're supposed to be deliriously happy because you're having a baby. It's not always as easy as that, however, and it's such a shame that depressions during pregnancy (and also post-partum) aren't talked about more openly. These diagnoses are so stigmatized, and it makes the shame you're already feeling even more difficult to bear._**

**_So go easy on Katniss, please. _**

**_Anyway... Alternate Mockingjay is coming up next. Please review! :)_**


	24. Chapter 24: The Mockingjay

_**Aaaaaand... *deep breath* POST!**_

_**I'm back! It took me quite a while to update, I'm sorry, but it turned out to be a lot more difficult than I'd thought it would be to write an alternate Mockingjay. I'm staying closer to the book now than I did in the alternate Catching Fire chapters, and it's quite challenging to find out which passages I have to repeat, which ones to rewrite in a shorter form, and what to change - either completely or slightly. Some things will be omitted, too. This mainly goes for the chapters to come, though. From now on, any sentences in italics are direct quotes from Mockingjay. No copyright infringement intended - Suzanne Collins, I dearly love your characters, and I'm just borrowing them to play with them for a little while. With great admiration. Thank you!  
**_

_**To make it up to you - because you had to wait - this chapter is extra long, 11,000 words! Yay! I hope you'll like it. It's surprisingly difficult to bring myself to post this chapter. **_

_**So this is where it starts - my AU Mockingjay. It starts just where Chapter 23 left off - at the destruction of District 12.**_

* * *

**Chapter 24: The Mockingjay**

They try to give me something to knock me out when I start screaming again, as what used to be District 12 has disappeared behind us, gone forever. I fight them viciously, I even threaten them with my bow. An arrow is pointed at the captain at one point, I have no idea how it got there, but there is no doubt in my mind that I will kill him if anyone goes any closer to me. I'm pressed into a corner, and all I can see is fire, fire roaring on my retina.

"Katniss, calm down. Put the bow down," Haymitch says. He has wisely stopped at a safe distance. Not safe from my arrows, but safe from me feeling compelled to shoot to defend myself. "Do you trust me?"

He asks the same question he did just a few minutes ago, and I'm no longer sure if my answer is still yes. Yet there is something in his voice, something in his eyes that leaves me no choice. He is our mentor, he's always done everything in his power to protect Peeta and me. Even tonight, he saved us. Although I'm wondering if burning with the rest of our district might have been preferable to watching our home go up in flames.

He stretches out a hand to me. "Give me the bow." Almost hypnotized by his Seam gray eyes, so like mine, I slowly let the bow fall down, meekly handing it to him. Only after it's left my hands do I see that other arms go down as well – the arms of the crew around me, several of whom had raised their guns against me.

My body trembles as I look around - at my sister in her nightgown, at Peeta who's holding her, shielding her body from bullets or arrows. At my mother who has pressed both her hands against the window in the back of the hovercraft, as if trying to get as close to District 12 as possible.

"There is no District 13," I say slowly, my voice hoarse from screaming. "It was destroyed during the war."

The captain who I just threatened to shoot comes up next to Haymitch. "That's what they'd like you to believe," he says.

And then he tells me a story. A story which at first seems too incredible to be true, I refuse to believe it. It's just too much to take in. But the unknown faces and uniforms surrounding me silently confirm that it is, in fact true.

It is a story of how District 13 was a weapons producer and a place of research, long ago, before the Great War. Before the Hunger Games. Of the terrible weapons they produced there – weapons which made them too dangerous for the Capitol to destroy, because just one of their terrible bombs could ruin the Capitol forever. They called them nuclear weapons, with powers that are almost unimaginable. How the Capitol, too, had such horrific weapons, but they had underestimated the unrest and the underlying discontent in the Districts. How District 13, being the only district which could really fight back, held more power than the Capitol had imagined. Neither could attack the other without being annihilated, and it was a stand-still which could only end in death and destruction for all of Panem.

So they came to a compromise. The Capitol made up a cover story of how District 13 was destroyed by the Capitol in the great, dark war. District 13 was left in peace, to fend on their own.

But they didn't. Not quite. District 13 still had lines of communication, secret hidden agents who lived and worked deep inside the Capitol, as well as in the various districts. The Capitol was all-powerful, but the resistance lived on. The discontent in the districts wasn't gone, it was just more well hidden than before. The Hunger Games did nothing in the Capitol's favor – they controlled the districts partly as a result of their existence, but they also pushed the districts even further away from the Capitol. Sending children off to kill each other made them a symbol of the Capitol's cruelty.

The Hunger Games also turned out to be the one place where the resistance could meet and recruit people of relative importance and power. Such as Haymitch, Johanna and Finnick. Victors were allowed to travel, to meet people, they were allowed to **see** things – places, connections, learn secrets – that the other district residents couldn't. They were important pieces in the puzzle, as they helped keeping the resistance together. They were among the very few who could move relatively freely in the spider's web that was Panem.

The Capitol has power, but is also vulnerable, because it is completely reliant on being provided for by the Districts. Its entire population is essentially non-productive, and can't feed itself. That's why the Capitol desperately needs to hold the districts in an iron grip, to ensure its own survival.

"And then came you," Haymitch smiles darkly. "The Mockingjay."

I unwittingly became the symbol of the revolution. The girl on fire. The girl who defied Snow with just a handful of berries. The fire was already there, burning deep in the hearts of the districts. I was merely the oxygen that fed it, made the fire roar. I became so important to the rebellion that it was vital for Snow to control me, to show to Panem that I was his. That's why Peeta and I had to get married, and that's why we had to conceive a baby. I was being watched so closely by the Capitol spies and surveillance cameras that the rebels couldn't really let me in on what was happening, about the resistance and the uprising. They were only able to give me some hints once in a while, enough to keep me curious – and to keep me careful.

"You knew all along?" I ask Haymitch.

"Yes. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you, but it was for your own protection. We needed to keep you safe, we needed to keep you **alive**. I was always around you to look out for you, protect you from dangers that you didn't even know existed yourself."

"How did you know about the hovercrafts?" Peeta asks, his hand has found mine.

"District 13 has constructed an early warning system surrounding District 12, just in case something like this would happen. It was connected to this." He shows me a golden medallion around his neck. Come to think of it, he's always worn that thing, for as long as I've known him. "It was modified after the 77th Hunger Games, when the ground really started burning underneath your feet. It was originally a gift from my mother. It was my token in the arena. I've kept it on me at all times since I became a victor, and it wouldn't raise suspicion. After the modification, if it started vibrating, I knew the Capitol planes would be only ten minutes away, and I'd have to get you out onto that field and wait for the hovercraft from District 13. There was always one on standby near District 12, concealed from the Capitol radars, waiting. That's how important you are to the rebellion, Katniss. You needed to be saved at all costs."

"Even if it meant sacrificing all of District 12?"

He looks down. "Yes."

Rage is burning inside me. "Gale knew, didn't he? He was in the rebellion?" I can barely get the words out, and I hate myself for already talking about him in the past tense. I think of Hazelle's little house, poor but clean, but also infused with coal dust. Of his younger siblings, lying in their beds. Of the fireball that was the Seam. My eyes fill with tears for the first time on this night that has changed everything.

"He was the leader of the rebellion of District 12," Haymitch says. "He stayed away from you for your own protection." Just as I stayed away from him for the same reason. We were both too dangerous to be seen together.

"How long until we get there?" My mother asks, her face ashen.

"Only another hour or so."

The four of us sit in silence, huddled together on the floor. Waiting. We don't know what we are waiting for. We just know that we are the only survivors of District 12.

* * *

We arrive at dawn. My legs are shaking as they touch the ground on the air base. There are no houses here, surprisingly, except some ruins – whatever went wrong here, it must've happened quite some time ago, as nature has started to reclaim the buildings. Other than the ruins and the runways, all we can see are the trees surrounding the base, most of them dark and naked. As we flew over District 13, we couldn't see any lights.

Where is everyone?

We are ushered underground, through a series of damp corridors. The security is heavy, there are locked doors everywhere – the captain of the hovercraft opens them with some kind of fingerprint control as well as what appears to be a scan of his eye. We arrive at a metal door which looks bigger and heavier than all the others – there are four guards posted in front of it.

On the other side of the door, we are met by the last person I ever thought I'd see here.

Plutarch Heavensbee.

"What the FUCK," I hiss, ready to throw myself at him, but I'm held back by Haymitch. What is it, is this a trap? Are we being sent back to the Hunger Games? What is **he** doing here? Was everything Haymitch said about District 13 a lie?

To my surprise, Haymitch and Heavensbee greet each other as if they are old friends. "How are you doing?" Plutarch asks.

"Shaken, Plutarch," Haymitch answers. He looks tired and pale, still barefeet.

On the screen behind them, covering an entire wall of what appears to be some kind of conference room, they show footage from the Capitol news. I hear my mother cry beside me as she realizes sooner than I do what they show: The destruction of District 12.

The news anchor's voice is all too familiar, I've been forced to watch their news on far too many occasions, and she's very stern and serious as she says: "District 12 was destroyed last night, in a massive fire bombing raid. In a press release, top-ranking Capitol officials say that there was an uprising in District 12, with Katniss Everdeen, nicknamed "The Mockingjay", planning to overthrow the Capitol. The District 12 rebels were in possession of biologically active weapons, and intelligence has ascertained that there were imminent plans of poisoning the water supply of the Capitol as well as those of several of the other districts. For the continued safety of all of Panem, District 12 had to be taken out, a Capitol official announced early this morning." Through it all, they show footage of the Capitol hovercrafts, dropping bombs, and the burning inferno of the Seam. They even show the Victor Village, and what is clearly mine and Peeta's house, burning to the ground. "It is believed that Katniss and Peeta Mellark both died in the attack. This goes to show that traitors will not go unpunished."

The screen goes black.

I take a deep intake of breath.

"What the fuck!" I repeat, and Plutarch raises an eyebrow.

Then Haymitch tells us more, things he didn't tell on the plane. Probably because we'd never believe him if he'd told us that Plutarch Heavensbee, head gamemaker in the last two Hunger Games, was also part of the resistance. That he had been for years. That victors from several of the districts – 3, 4, 6, 7, 8 and 11 – were involved, too.

"Who?" I ask him.

"You can probably guess quite a few of them," Haymitch says. "Finnick, Johanna. Chaff, Beetee, Wiress and Mags. There are others as well, with varying degrees of knowledge and involvement."

"The uprising has been escalating steadily for several years, ever since the 74th Hunger Games. You and the berries were what really set it off, Katniss. Until then, the rebellion didn't really have anyone to rally behind, they didn't have a symbol that bound them together." Plutarch's words are making me dizzy. I knew that I was the Mockingjay, but I never knew just how important I was. I've just been trying to survive, day by day, attempting to live anonymously in District 12 – while I was the burning hope of the districts, without truly realizing it myself. Plutarch continues explaining: "You provided them with that. That's why it was so important for Snow to control you – but he hadn't counted on how his attempts would fail. How your wedding bound you and Peeta closer together instead of breaking you. How you two kept making public statements that could be construed as rebellious. Even when you got pregnant, and was obviously very ill, and when Snow thought he had finally broken you, you fought back. It made the unrest in the districts escalate even further, the effect after the Victor's Banquet was immediate. And with tonight's bombing raid, it has turned into a full-scale war. We have managed to smuggle some of the victors who have been helping us here to District 13 – just in time. Some are still missing, though, and some have been killed."

Plutarch pauses, he seems distracted and even sad. He was intimately involved in the Hunger Games, he must have a close relationship to many of the victors. "District 12 was bombed tonight not because of the resistance in District 12 – the resistance there was weak, like the rest of the district, and they certainly didn't have access to biological weapons. It's just a lie the Capitol made up to justify the bombing to its own citizens. The real reason they chose to destroy District 12, was to send a message – that resistance will end in annihilation. And – they needed to get rid of you." He nods at me.

"Why?" I whisper.

"_Because while you live, the revolution lives_. Snow has finally realized that as well. He thought he was controlling you, but he didn't. Everything he did trying to control you, backfired. Even the baby."

"What?" I whisper.

"We all know that Snow made you conceive a baby to control you. But what he hadn't thought of, was that to Panem, the star-crossed lovers story didn't really have anything to do with **him**. Panem thought your relationship was real, all along. And that made your pregnancy real as well. Suddenly, your pregnancy has become a symbol of hope – not of oppression. Quite ironic, really, don't you think?"

I fall to the floor, my legs unable to carry me anymore.

District 12 is gone, and it's all my fault.

* * *

When I come to, I'm in what must be an underground hospital. The first person I see, is Peeta. It's clear he's been crying. He's wearing clothes I've never seen before – a gray, somewhat ill-fitting uniform of some sort. I look down at my body, and find that I'm wearing the same thing. Mine is more close fitting, however, and it does nothing to conceal my belly.

"What…." I try to say, but nothing really comes out of my mouth but a croak. A nurse comes to my aid with a glass of water. Even the water tastes bland, with a strange, metallic aftertaste.

"Mrs Mellark," a voice I've never heard before says. It belongs to a rather drab-looking woman in her forties, wearing a white coat. Unmistakably a doctor. Next to her stands a man, also dressed in white, who looks a bit older. "I'm Dr Herrera, this is my colleague Dr Aurelius. We have done a full body scan after your collapse earlier this morning, and you'll be happy to know that everything looks fine, both with you and your fetus. Your body has been under a lot of stress lately as a result of your hyperemesis, and you fainted this morning because of your generally weakened physical condition and the extreme stress caused by the events you witnessed in your home district. There is no reason to keep you in the hospital, however, as what you need is mainly rest and food."

The man next to her tries to shake my hand, but I cross them over my breasts, not wanting to touch him or anyone else. "I'm Dr Aurelius. My area of expertise is psychiatry." I roll my eyes. "I've specialized in the care of patients who have been severely traumatized by major events such as the rebellion or the Hunger Games. I believe that I may be of help to you."

"I'm not crazy," I point out to him.

"I never said you were. But you have been under an extreme pressure for several years, and it is believed you may benefit from my help to process what you have been through."

"And who exactly "believes" this?" I ask him.

"My offer of help isn't really a request, Mrs Mellark. My orders come from very high places."

I snort.

* * *

As we enter the massive dining hall, all talk stops. Everyone stares at us, but most of all at me. It's clear they all know who we are, and I hear hushed whispers of "Katniss Everdeen", "Mockingjay", and – even more frequently – "baby". I hear gasps, too, and realize that perhaps they thought it wasn't real. That the baby was just something the Capitol made up, just more propaganda. My bump feels all too visible in my snug uniform, and I'm starting to think that it wasn't a coincidence that my clothes were seemingly a bit too small for me.

Everyone is sitting by long tables, and we have no choice but to sit down with them.

Five persons from District 12, the only ones left. I have to blink away the tears, I won't allow anyone to see them. Not here.

I look down at my plate, at the bland porridge which turns out to look worse than it tastes. I force myself to eat some of it, and I'm surprised when I discover that despite it all, I'm ravenous.

We are being shown our new quarters. Bunk beds, concrete walls. Peeta and I share one room, my mother and Prim another. I don't know where they put Haymitch. We each have a drawer for personal belongings – which consist of the clothes we wore when we escaped from District 12, and nothing else. My bow is there, too, but not the arrows. I guess they don't trust me with them, which might actually be a smart move on their part.

Looking down at the few items of clothing in my drawer, together with the gray spare uniform next to it, I break down in tears. Peeta and I curl up next to each other in the lower bunk, as we both cry for the loss of our loved ones. Of the loss of everything we knew, our whole world.

What is left to us now? A rebellion we never asked to be a part of. A District we didn't think existed. I still have my family, but his family is gone. Everyone was killed so that Snow could prove his power: To get rid of the Mockingjay. To end the rebellion.

What have I done?

* * *

I try to stay in bed, but I quickly find out that that's not an option in District 13. Every aspect of your life is controlled. Every day, we are expected to put our hand into a device which makes a temporary tattoo on the inside of your forearm of the day's schedule – which we are expected to follow. Food is served four times a day, in four different shifts. The dining hall is open for thirty minutes for each shift, and if you're late, you will have to wait until the next meal.

It's clear that resources are tight, although people don't actually look like they are starving. They don't look happy either, though.

It turns out that alcohol is banned. Which means that quite soon after our arrival in District 13, Haymitch ends up in the hospital, even in the same room I was just released from, with alcohol withdrawal syndrome. He's sober for the first time in more than two decades, and it turns him into a trembling, hallucinating wreck. I guess I should be there for him, he's always supported us, but I have more than enough just trying to hold on to whatever is left of my own sanity. The image of the Seam, a huge ball of fire, is etched into my retina. Whenever I close my eyes, it's there.

I reluctantly go to Dr Aurelius and beg him for something to sleep on, but he refuses, saying they're not safe for my baby. Our first night in District 13 is haunted by nightmares. We haven't really slept in more than two days, but we are both afraid to fall asleep for fear of the nightmares. In the end we are so exhausted that we more or less pass out, although we keep waking each other and take turns comforting each other through our nightmares.

The next morning, the first appointment for the day that's being tattooed on both Peeta's and my hand is: "Meeting in Command at 9." My mother and Prim are being sent to the hospital for "training". I'm painfully aware of the stares we receive from everyone while we're having breakfast, and how out of place we seem. We may have grown up dirt poor and hungry, but at least we had some degree of freedom in our daily lives. Now, we're being controlled by a tight schedule set by someone else. Our home is gone. It wasn't much of a home, but it was all we had and all we knew.

As we sit there, it's also painfully obvious that while my family is still alive, Peeta's isn't. He hasn't talked about it yet, although I've tried to make him open up to me. He just looks down when I try, refusing to meet my eyes, his hands trembling. I know his mother was difficult to swallow, that she hit him and was generally being an abusive bitch. Still, I didn't wish her dead, and I'm sure neither did Peeta. I know he loved his father and brothers, and his little nephew… Just thinking about the tiny body being consumed by the flames makes me feel sick. Sitting here, in what feels like an alternate reality, it's hard to take in what's really happened. It doesn't feel real. It **can't** be real.

But I see from the looks we're getting from the District 13 residents that it is.

As we enter the room they call Command, which turns out to be where we met Plutarch in yesterday, I feel the now familiar flutter in my belly again. The movements are gradually growing stronger, they now feel like actual kicks from a baby rather than the wings of a butterfly.

Inside, I scan the people there – there's Plutarch Heavensbee, not surprisingly, and a stern woman of about 50 with an almost disturbingly perfect veil of gray hair. She has an aura of authority about her, and there's no doubt in my mind she's the leader of whatever this group is. I have never met most of the people around the table, and their faces are just fleeing in front of me, I find it hard to focus. I stand awkwardly by the door, refusing to seem too eager, when I'm a bit ashamed of myself for even showing up here.

There are familiar faces as well, and some of them almost coax out a smile from me. I didn't expect to meet Finnick here, but it's a great relief to see that he's out of District four. "Annie?" I whisper in his ear as I give him a hug, and he whispers back: "She's fine. She's here, she can't wait to meet you." He looks down at my belly with a strange look in his eyes. Johanna calls us "horny bastards", but hugs us both fiercely. With tears in her eyes, she tells us that there are a few other victors that have been rescued from or smuggled out of their respective districts as well, although quite a few are on the run, and some have been killed. Chaff and Mags are among them, and Finnick actually starts crying when her name is mentioned. Mags used to be his mentor, he owes his life to her, and they were close friends.

But then the stern-looking woman interrupts our exchange. She's clearly not very interested in victors catching up on friends and loved ones. "I'm President Coin, and I'm the leader of District 13 and of the rebellion," she says, without any further introduction.

I don't know why, but I feel uneasy around her. Her hand is dry and warm, her handshake just a little bit too firm. Trying to conceal my insecurity, I sit down by the round table to join the others. Peeta's steady and comforting presence by my side is the only thing that keeps me from screaming. My head is throbbing already.

"As you know, Katniss – is it okay if I call you that, Mrs Mellark?" Coin says, but it's not really a question, and I feel compelled to nod, "you have become the front figure of the revolution, even as you didn't know much about it yourself. Mr Abernathy had a great deal of knowledge about what was going on, but we felt it necessary to keep you two in the dark, as we didn't know how you would react." I narrow my eyes. Coin sees my reaction, and continues: "You were being watched very closely by the Capitol, and any attempt to let you in on what was happening would have been very risky. We were also not sure if you would be willing to be the image of the revolution if you knew what was going on. All in all, we felt it safer for everyone involved if you were not let in on what was going on in the districts." I feel somewhat hurt by how they clearly didn't trust me enough to tell me about the part I was playing in the revolution, even as they seem to have built up an image of me as a revolution leader. I can even see stills of myself flashing on the screen behind Coin – of myself in the wedding dress, touched by fire. The smoldering, emaciated Mockingjay dressed in black from just a few weeks ago. Holding the infamous berries in the 74th Hunger Games. Holding hands with Peeta.

Peeta clears his throat. "What about me?"

Coin lifts an eyebrow. "You were necessary only as a part of the illusion of the star-crossed lovers. The main person here was always Katniss, I'm afraid. She's the Mockingjay, you're the baker." I'm stunned by how harsh her words sound, of how unfair it is to play down his part in the star-crossed lovers when he's the only one who has kept me going. Peeta seems to shrink in front of me even as he tries to pretend he's not affected by her words. I want to tell her that the star-crossed lovers are real now, but I guess she either already knows – or she doesn't care.

I decide to cut to the chase. "What do you want from me?"

Coin doesn't answer my question right away. Her silvery eyes hold mine as she says: "I hope you'll appreciate the great efforts we have undertaken to ensure your safety. Saving you from the destruction of District 12 was very risky, and we have invested great resources in keeping a stealth hovercraft in the immediate vicinity of District 12 for weeks."

"You expected an attack, didn't you?" I say slowly, my voice dangerously low.

"Yes, although we didn't expect it to be this devastating."

"Why didn't you do anything to prevent it?" Peeta hisses.

"Because if we did that, we'd tip off the Capitol about our extremely well-placed spy who provided the information on the upcoming attack. We need him where he is, not tortured and killed by Snow."

My hands grip the table in front of me so tightly my knuckles are white, just to keep me steady. "So you sacrificed all of District 12 to save your precious spy?" I whisper.

"It's not as easy as that, Katniss, although I'm sure it must seem like that to you. We have a war to consider here, not just one battle."

"They all burned!" I scream at her, getting up from my chair and walking towards her. Two bodyguards immediately stand between us, seemingly coming up from nowhere.

Coin's eyes don't betray any emotion. "Not all." She nods towards one of the guards by the door, and he opens another door, probably a side entrance to the war room.

It's Gale. He's injured, still bloody and battered, but definitely alive. "Catnip," he murmurs, and I throw myself at him without thinking, hugging him tightly while tears are streaming down my cheeks. He hugs me back, holding me close while I take in the familiar scent of Gale, mixed with blood, sweat and coal. My bump is pressed into his stomach, and when he notices it, he suddenly seems awkward and looks down. I follow his gaze, but don't comment on it. I don't know how he's feeling about the baby, and I don't care.

"What are you doing here? I ask between my sobs, "I thought we were the only survivors?"

Still holding his hand around my body to steady us both, he tells me how, when the power in District 12 went out suddenly, he understood that something was wrong. Being the leader of the resistance in District 12, he had heard rumors that something was going on, and understood that something was very wrong. "I tried to get people to come with me – first to the fields, where there weren't any buildings that could burn, and then through the electric fence. The power was out, so we could get out into the woods. I didn't know where to take them, where to go, there was only one place I could think of, really – the lake we used to go to sometimes. We only had my bow and some snares, and far too many mouths to feed. There was no way we could survive in the woods all winter without provisions or warm clothes. Before we had time to really find out what to do next, we were discovered by District 13 scout hovercrafts and taken here."

"Who else lives?" I ask him.

"My mother, my siblings."

"How about my family?" Peeta asks him, close to tears. Gale finally releases me.

Gale shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Peeta, there was no time to go to the town. Almost everyone from the town is dead, the only ones I could get out were from the Seam." I also know what he's not saying: That even if he'd had time, there is no way he could ever get his mother out of there. She'd never trust Gale, a Seam miner. Peeta buries his face in his hands, and I sink down next to him, placing my hands on his thighs to try to support him as best as I can. Even though he's believed his family to be dead all along, seeing Gale must have made him hope against hope that perhaps his family, too, had survived.

"Madge?" I ask him, and he lights up for a split second.

"She's safe." He must see the question in my eyes, because he continues: "She was with… me when the power went out." It was late at night, which means she must have snuck out from her house to be with him. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, though. I also realize Madge and Peeta are among the very few merchants from District 12 who are alive. "We are about 60 or 70 altogether," he says. "We only arrived in District 13 less than an hour ago." And even though that means the death toll of District 12 is still unimaginable – thousands of people – it still feels immensely comforting to know that we're not only five.

"Your actions on that night were nothing short of heroic," Coin says to Gale, and despite his injuries and the tiredness I see in his eyes, he seems to stand a bit taller as he hears her words. "Why don't you go back to your family and get some food and rest. We have much to discuss later, we would like you to play a key part in the revolution. You have certainly proved your worth."

I cringe as I hear her words, even as he seems proud to hear what she's saying. There is something about all of this which I definitely don't like.

"Thank you. Anything I can do to help."

Coin turns back to me after Gale leaves the room. "Right now, Panem believes that you are dead, Katniss. We don't know if they've gone through your house to search for your bodies for final confirmation, but even if they have, and have discovered that your bodies aren't there, they're not telling the public. We need to make propos, showing that you are not only alive, but that you're actively fighting against the Capitol." She motions to my belly. "Your pregnancy is showing, which is a great advantage, too. Our informants tell us that many in the districts never thought that you were really pregnant, that it was just Capitol propaganda. To show that the Mockingjay is having a baby, a hope for the future, will make great television. Beetee here," she nods over to him, "is working on how to hack into the Capitol networks, showing our propos instead of the scheduled programming. You will cause an uproar."

So, in other words, they want me to be exactly what Snow wanted me be – to be a front figure, a puppet.

"What's in it for me?"

Coin blinks her eyes, I don't think she expected me to ask any questions at all. She thought I'd be like Gale – "do anything to help".

But this Mockingjay is sick of being used.

Then Coin gets back on track. Her eyes meet mine, and I'm struck by how eerily pale her irises are. She smiles at me, a smile which does nothing to comfort me. "You get revenge."

I sit back.

"Isn't that what you want?"

Is it? What I want, right now, is to be back in District 12. For everyone I love to be alive. But that's not an option. What is left for me then?

"We heard certain… rumors that your marriage to Peeta was enforced. That the star-crossed lovers of District 12 was a lie. That you were forced to conceive a child." Coin looks all too innocent – she knows they aren't just rumors. Beside me, I can see Peeta's clenched jaws from the corner of my eye, he's angry.

"That's none of your business," he says, and Coin seems startled to hear him talk. She is so focused on me that she's forgetting that we come together. We're a package deal, a team.

"Well, if there is any truth to those rumors, it would certainly give you quite a motivation to seek revenge," Coin answers. And she's right. The truth behind the rumors does, in fact, give me an strong incentive to seek revenge. Our marriage is real – now – but just thinking about our wedding and the wedding night makes me furious. And inside my belly, I can feel the fluttery, tickling movements of the most grievous injustice I want revenge for.

I get up from the chair, looking down at them all. "I'll think about it." I give them my best unforgiving look, hoping it looks convincing. I've never been a good actress. "In the meantime, I have a condition for thinking this over." Coin opens her mouth to try to say something, but I don't give her the chance to talk. "I want to go back to District 12." A collective gasp goes through the room. "With Peeta. If he wants to go." I haven't discussed this with him, but I need to give him a chance to say goodbye - if he can bear it. And I need to see it, to understand. To truly see that District 12 is gone. That it's not just another lie, that it's not just propaganda. That the fire I saw was real, not just another nightmare.

Without waiting for an answer, I turn around and walk away.

* * *

That night, our second night together in this bed, Peeta snuggles close, his chest pressed against my back, putting his arms around me and holding me close. "Thank you," he whispers in my ear. I know what he's grateful for – a few hours earlier, we were told that my request to go to District 12 has been granted, and that we'll leave tomorrow morning.

All I'm wearing is a sort of nightgown that apparently all the women in District 13 have. It's very obviously second hand. The fabric is dull, non-descript and slightly itchy. My feet are bare, and my skin is full of goose bumps – it's cold and damp underground.

I hate being underground. It's too reminiscent of the mines in District 12. The Capitol mines that took my father away.

"Are you okay?" I whisper back, and as I hear my own voice, I realize how silly my question is. Of course he's not okay.

He doesn't answer. Instead, one hand sneaks down to my belly. I've started to gain weight now, but I'm still scarily thin, and my bump looks bigger than it really is because of my small frame. I have to fight back the nausea, and for once it's not related to my hyperemesis – which is thankfully a thing of the past. "Are you?" He whispers back.

I don't answer. Of course I'm not.

We're going to District 12 tomorrow. His family is dead. I'm pregnant. Our world as we know it is gone. I'm not Snow's puppet anymore, but am I about to become Coin's puppet instead?

I turn around in his arms – if it's to stops his hand from caressing my belly, or if it's to kiss him, I'm not sure – but the end result is still the same: His lips meeting mine in a long, lingering kiss. I've been unable to truly kiss him since the first time I threw up on the train to the Capitol. He tried once, and I ended up actually vomiting on him.

He didn't try again after that, other than the very quick kiss a few days ago.

But now, finally, I can allow myself to lose myself in his kiss. As he realizes that I accept and even enjoy his kiss, he groans appreciatively in my mouth and presses me closer. I can feel his arousal already, and I'm surprised to feel my body instinctively responding to his.

It's been so long.

And in between us, awkwardly different from the last time we did this, is my belly, pressing into him. I tear my mouth away from his, panting. My eyes are cast downwards, I can't bear to look at him. I try to move away from him, but he keeps his arms around me, he doesn't allow me to leave his embrace. I feel terrible, I know I should be comforting him, that I should allow him – us - a brief escape. We'll be going to District 12 tomorrow, and we both desperately need both an escape – and to be together. I suddenly realize that my body is trembling.

"Talk to me, Katniss," he whispers, and with a finger underneath my chin he lifts my head up to meet his eyes. I'm not surprised to see that they are full of tears. "What's wrong?"

"Everything. Everything is wrong but you," I finally manage to say, tears rolling down my cheeks now. "This place, and… home, and… your family, and… this." I shyly make a downward movement with one of my hands, indicating my belly. "My body is changing, and I feel…" I can't continue.

"I think you look amazing, Katniss. I love seeing your body change, knowing our baby is growing inside you." Yes, but you wanted this baby in the first place, I want to say, but I hold my tongue. "And now that we don't have to worry about the Hunger Games anymore, it could be a… new beginning?"

The thought of raising a child in this drab, over-controlling place is sickening.

He kisses me again, lighter this time, less demanding. He's giving me an out if I want it, leaving the initiative up to me. I love him for being so considerate of my emotions, even though we haven't had sex in months and I can feel his arousal still pressing into my thigh. With a shuddering sigh I deepen our kiss, sneaking one hand around his neck to rest on the back of his head, pressing him closer to me.

"Is it just to sleep, or is it… more?" I ask him as he nibbles at my neck, mirroring the question he asked me not so long ago.

"To love and to forget," he murmurs as he moves to kiss my throat, and I gently have to push him away.

He looks confused for a second, but I smile apologetically and explain, embarrassed: "I don't feel sick anymore, but when something is touching my neck, I'm… I just can't handle it."

"Oh. Sorry." He strokes my hair, undoing my braid, allowing my dark hair to fall freely over my shoulders.

I think of another thing. "I, um…. I think blowjobs are out of the question, too. Sorry."

He chuckles. "I can live without them for a few months, don't worry."

But still, his fingers are just combing through my hair, not making any further advances. I can tell something is bothering him. He takes a deep breath. "Katniss, can I… look at you?"

I furrow my eyebrows. "You're already looking at me."

He blushes. "No, I mean… Can I look at your body? The way it is now. You haven't allowed me to…" He doesn't complete his sentence, but it's true. I've hid myself from him, never allowing him to see me naked since my vomiting subsided enough for me to shower alone. Since my belly started growing, I've tried to hide my body in wide, oversized clothing, and being naked in front of Peeta has been unthinkable.

I swallow hard. "Okay," I whisper. My hands are trembling as I hesitatingly remove my District 13 nightgown, then my gray panties. Everything is gray in District 13. Gray and dull and practical. He takes a sharp intake of breath, and I finally gather the courage to look up at him. I blush as I do, instinctively covering my breasts with one arm. They are bigger than they used to be, too big, and even the color of the areolas has changed, they are too dark. The rest of me is still far too thin, though, aside from the belly which I personally think is disgustingly big and foreign already.

He gently removes my hand. "You are… stunning, Katniss. I've never seen you more beautiful." For a split second I think he must be mocking me, how can I possibly be beautiful now? But then I see the awe in his eyes, the wonder. It's as if he's seeing me for the first time. I tug at his t-shirt and boxers, and soon we are both naked together. When was the last time we had sex? I wonder. It must have been that last night before I became ill. On the train, as we were going to the Capitol, and neither of us could sleep. I'm dreading the trip we'll be making tomorrow even more than I did going to the Capitol, but it can't be helped, it's necessary. We need to know, we need to see.

And we need this, tonight. It's been months since we were together, and he seems eager, almost desperate. I know that it must have been hard for him. All that time, without touching me. I've been a retching, crying wreck, and he's been there by my side through all of it.

His hands roam my body, he seems to be kissing me and touching me everywhere. This includes my belly, but he seems to sense my discomfort and doesn't dwell long on it, he just touches and kisses it as he's passing by. He seems intent on touching every bit of skin, as if reacquainting himself with my body. He barely gives me the chance to touch him at all, he seems so intent on pleasing me. His tongue finds my breast, and I arch my back as he sucks lightly on my nipple, then biting just hard enough, just the way he knows I like it. His left hand is playing with my other breast, while his right hand goes down, and I moan in anticipation of what I know is to come. I spread my thighs wide for him, welcoming his touch, and I can't hold back a moan when his hand touches me down there for the first time, finding me wet already. His fingers slide gently over my moist folds, and his eyes hold mine as he does. "I missed you," he breathes. "I missed this. Missed touching you. Missed how you feel underneath my fingers, how wet you feel, how tight you are" – he slips his index finger inside me as he says so, and I arch my back and moan loudly, and he smiles – "and what you sound like." His deft fingers find my clit, and I lean closer to kiss him as he does, my moan being swallowed by his mouth. I buck against his hand, he knows exactly how to make me writhe underneath him. I feel something in my belly, something different, and I tear my mouth away from his in confusion, looking down between us.

"What is it?" Peeta asks, looking concerned at me.

I shake my head, as if clearing it, and tentatively touch my rounded belly, which is now much tighter than it was before. My uterus seems to be contracting because of my arousal. It's not painful, just… strange. Peeta notices the change, too, and rubs the swell gently. "Is it dangerous?" he wonders, looking insecure. This is all new to us.

I hesitate. "I don't think so. My mother said it was… okay. To be together. And it doesn't hurt." I find it hard to meet his eyes, I hate talking about my pregnancy, and I'm very uncomfortable with my bump. Now that we are both naked, there is nothing I can do to hide. Peeta left the night light on. Because there are no windows here in District 13, they are needed so the bedrooms aren't pitch black at night. It would make evacuation at night, should it be needed, take too long. I know he likes to see me when we are together, both my body and my reactions to his touch, and normally, I like it, too. But tonight, I wish there were no lights here at all.

I'm not surprised when he moves down between my legs, spreading my folds gently so he can get a better look. This is normally something I really like to watch – I like looking at him being so turned on by looking at me – and I'm not disappointed by the obvious approval in his face, by his tongue practically hanging out, and the groan escaping his lips. Not that I understand just what is so amazing to him about what I look like down there, but I'm not complaining. Now, however, the bump gets in the way. If I want to look at Peeta, there is no way to overlook it, and it's disturbing me.

As soon as his tongue touches me, it's as if he's all over the place. Moving in slow circles, then flicking, then suddenly plunging into me, it's as if he wants to do everything all at once and can't make up my mind about what to do first. I squeeze my eyes shut. I hold on to the edges of the bed with my hands, grounding me as I buck against him. After a little while of behaving like a little boy in a candy store – he just wants something of everything, leaving me frustrated but very turned on – he suddenly becomes determined, focused.

I open my eyes for just a few seconds, and meet his blue eyes, just about visible over my belly, and he stops what he's doing briefly to grin up at me. His chin is moist, and I whimper: "Please, Peeta…." He chuckles, understanding what I mean, and gets down to serious business. There is no mistaking it now – he knows just how to make me come, so hard, when doing this. He slips two fingers inside me, rocking gently but firmly, finding a spot inside me that came as a complete surprise to both of us the first time he found it. I cry out, and when his tongue finds my clit again, my brain is paralyzed by his double attack. My body has taken on a life of its own, the sounds that are being ripped from my throat seem like they come from someone else, I think I'm calling out his name repeatedly, and my body is thrashing wildly. If all of District 13 hears us now, in these close quarters, I'm far beyond caring.

"Come for me, Katniss," he groans, and then he to my surprise blows on my clit, which is almost enough to push me over the edge – and then he sucks on it intently, and that's all it takes for me to come completely undone. I can't remember ever having an orgasm as strong as this one, I don't know if it's actually the case or I just can't recall because it's been so long. When I come down again after what seems like an impossibly long orgasm – he keeps prolonging it by his constant licking and sucking on my clit – I feel like a shivering, exhausted lump of jelly. Unable to move, even to open my eyes. I'm panting heavily, and my belly is rock hard.

I can distantly feel Peeta moving up to lie face to face with me, his cock grazing my thighs as he moves, but he makes no attempt to enter me. Instead, he kisses me, softly. "Open your eyes, Katniss," he whispers, and I somehow find the strength to obey. His breath catches as his blue eyes, burning with arousal, meet mine. "Fire…" is all he says. "The fire in your eyes…." He looks at me as if I'm the most amazing thing he's ever seen, even in the sickeningly green night light. For the first time in days, the word "fire" doesn't make me shudder.

There's a question in his eyes, and when I give him a slight, tired smile, he adjusts himself, moving on top of me, being careful not to crush me. Again, my bump is in the way, and I cringe, but he quickly takes on more of his weight on his arms, adjusting the angle slightly. He doesn't seem concerned about it at all. The tip of his cock grazes my slick folds, I arch against him when it hits my now overly sensitive clit, and I can tell from the sound he makes when I do that he's close. He's so close, but he's making very sure I'm okay before doing anything else, and I love him even more for it. I somehow find the strength to lift up my knees, spreading them widely to accommodate him, and he immediately accepts the invitation, pushing slowly into me. It's been so long, and I can feel him stretching me almost uncomfortably. I worry for a split second that I'm somehow different down there now, but as he slowly fills me up, with a moan that doesn't leave me wondering about how he's feeling, I'm assured.

I'm somewhat surprised when he stops moving when he's fully sheathed inside me, but then I feel his cock twitching, deep in my core, and understand. He's perilously close, and he wants to prolong it. "Don't move," he says, his voice strained, his eyes closed. I just lie there, my body exhausted yet tingling, watching him in the green night light. Watching his face contort, how he's trying to slow his breathing. Finally, he opens his eyes to look at me. "It's just been so long," he says apologetically. "It feels so amazing to be inside you again…" He has tears in his eyes, I realize. I smile up at him and move my hips questioningly against his, and he responds immediately. We quickly find back to our familiar rhythm. We both know this is not the night for experimenting or acrobatic positions. Tonight, we're both just happy to be together again, for something resembling normalcy in an extreme situation. For anything to help us forget why we are here, deep underground in green light instead of in our own bed in the Victor Village. What we are going to do tomorrow.

I find my body responding to his thrusts, even though I'm still exhausted from the aftermath of my orgasm just a few minutes before. I want him to speed up, I clutch his shoulders and move against his thrusts insistently, but he doesn't let me. He seems determined to love me slowly, deeply, carefully, yet intensely and forcefully. He keeps looking at me, as if he's constantly checking me for signs of discomfort. He chuckles when he sees my frustrated frown, he's seen it before and knows what it means. "Patience, Katniss, patience," he tells me, and won't let me move my hand down between my legs to stimulate myself further. "I've waited too long for this to be over so soon."

Finally, I just give up and allow him to set the pace on his own. It seems to go on forever, how he can have such stamina now, after all this time, is beyond me. It must be due to sheer determination, because the way his face contracts tells me he's fighting a difficult battle. His thrusting increases in speed, and I can't stop the moans anymore, spurring him on. His speed picks up when he hears me, and then I don't hold anything back, knowing it has such an effect on him. He's not exactly silent himself, groaning and panting my name, it's like a prayer. "Katniss… Katniss… Katniss…" I feel myself approaching the brink again, and we come almost simultaneously, my second orgasm pulling him over the edge as well.

After, he stays on his elbows to keep his weight off me, panting heavily while kissing my shoulder. Even now, he remembers to stay away from my neck. Then he moves off me to lie next to me. The bunk bed is narrow, actually a bit too narrow for two, but we don't care. I see his eyes close and feel how his breathing slows down, as I drift off to sleep. The last thing I think before I fall asleep, is that this is the first time we've had sex without anyone listening or watching.

* * *

When I wake up the next morning, I'm feeling almost rested. Facing Peeta naked in the harsh light from the day lamps in our bedroom is hard, and I feel myself shrinking from him – ashamed of my body. He doesn't allow me to escape from him, though, drawing me in a slow, sweet kiss while caressing my back. Then he murmurs: "Don't hide from me, Katniss. I'll always find you beautiful." I get up from the bed to go to the bathroom, and as I do, I feel the baby directing a kick directly at my bladder. I wince, and Peeta just looks questioningly at me, not understanding why. When I return a few minutes later – showers in District 13 are short, as they can't spare much energy for heating water – I notice the way he looks at me as I step out of the towel and start to get dressed.

"Did I mention how sexy you look when you're carrying my child?" he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek as he goes to the bathroom for his own two-minute timed shower. And I realize with a start that he truly means it. My emotions regarding this pregnancy are still so difficult to deal with that I find it hard to believe that he can actually want this. Want **me**. I can't understand how he could want this baby, how he could want my body to look like this.

"Peeta?" I say as he's about to close the bathroom door.

He stops, turning around. "Yes?" he says, when I don't continue.

I hesitate, not quite sure what to say. "Do you… I mean, do you think it's easier now?"

I don't have to specify what I mean by "it". He shakes his head. "No. I wish I could…" He has to pause briefly, clearly fighting tears. "I wish I could take back what happened in District 12. I wish I could… get them all back. But at least our daughter is safe from the Hunger Games here in thirteen. She'll never be reaped. She won't be taken from us." It's clear he's been thinking about this – I can tell from the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice doesn't falter, by how easily the words seem to come to him. The consequences of us being here have for our child are clear, even if everything else seems confusing, and even though I'm definitely ambivalent about District 13.

"Do you really think District 13 is any better?" I blurt out, without thinking. He frowns. "We are being used. Again," I add.

He sighs. "At least they don't arrange any Hunger Games here. That's got to be worth something."

As he closes the door behind him, I wonder if he's right.

* * *

My tattoo for the day says "Breakfast 0730" and then "Trip to District 12, report to hangar 0815". There are no more plans for the day, not even meals are scheduled. We go to the dining hall, and as we do, there seem to be even more stares and whispers than usual, it's almost like the very first time we went here. I meet Prim's eyes from across the room, and she blushes. I'm sure she notices my confused look, but she just looks down.

But then Johanna sees me, and she immediately starts to moan loudly: "Peeta, Peeta, Peeeeeeetaaaaaa!" She earns laughs and wooohooooo's from various tables. Finnick moans "Oh, Katniss" in response to Johanna, and the two of them dissolve in laughter. Peeta looks like he's about to faint.

The laughter and cheering is mostly from the District 12 table, but some District 13 residents are clearly having fun as well, and there is actually applause as we take our plates with some kind of porridge and go to find a place to sit. "Saved you seats next to us," Johanna shouts, and right now I'm blushing furiously and I want to sit anywhere but next to her, but all the other chairs are taken. "That was quite a performance last night, you kept half the district up. Seriously, guys! They haven't bothered to spend their precious limited resources on sound insulation here, you might want to remember that next time." I'm too mortified to even start thinking about an answer. "Hey stud," she coos to Peeta as he sits down, and he stares down at the table without saying anything at all.

"It's always the quiet ones," Finnick snickers at Johanna, and she dissolves in laughter again.

"And what does that say about you?" she says to him, and Finnick scowls, but Annie gives him a nudge with her elbow, and he laughs. "The problem is, listening to you two really, really turned me on last night, but there was no one around to help me out," she continues. "I don't suppose you'll let me borrow Peeta just for a little while? You know, one victor to another? I have some "leisure time" scheduled between 1500 and 1530." She shows me her schedule to prove it, and I scowl at her. Finnick is laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes.

"I have to say it's great to have some District 12 people here," Johanna says, eating a spoonful of porridge while moaning appreciatively. Far too appreciatively. Finnick does the same, and before I know it, there's a downright victor moaning party going on by the table. "This place is so drab and boring, no one dares to let their hair down. This is the first time I've heard laughter in the dining hall. Gotta love you District 12 people for being spontaneous, rash and…."

"… loud." Annie, to my surprise finishes her sentence, and I'm so startled to hear her talk that I look up from my - until now - very interesting bowl of porridge, and meet her eyes for a second. I'm still beet red, but she just smiles innocently and cocks an eyebrow. I smile back at her, hesitatingly. Her belly has started to swell as well, but unlike me, she's glowing with happiness.

I look down at the ink on my hand, and my smile fades.

District 12.

We'll be going home in less than 30 minutes.

* * *

_**I promised you pregnancy smut on Tumblr several weeks ago - well, I hope you liked it. ;) Please review! TOM is sooooo close to 400 reviews now, it's AMAZING!**_

_**I also hope this chapter has made it more clear why District 12 was bombed - quite a few of you seemed surprised that it was, as everything seemed to be going the way Snow wanted. But things weren't going well for him, not at all. But Katniss didn't know anything about what was happening in the other districts, and this story is written in Katniss' POV, so then obviously you didn't know, either. **_

_**And follow me on Tumblr if you'd like, I just might post teasers, you never know. ;) I'm MockingJayFlyingFree over there as well. **_


	25. Chapter 25: No forgiveness

**Chapter 25: No forgiveness**

**_The sentences in italics are quotes from Mockingjay._**

* * *

We don't talk much on the hovercraft. Gale is coming, too – he just muttered something about having to see District 12 when we met him in the hangar. I was surprised to see him, but it's probably just another sign of how important he is to the resistance. With his dark, good looks, his charm, his past as a rebel leader and his heroic actions when District 12 was bombed, I wouldn't be surprised if he's being groomed to be some kind of Mockingjay 2.

There's a camera team coming with us. I made a huge scene when I found out they were coming, but it didn't get me anywhere. The captain told me I could choose between going with the camera team, and not going at all. So I had to give in, and allow myself to be filmed.

They dressed us up in suspiciously nice clothes before we left – the washed-out, gray District 13 attire were left in the hangar. Now we look like we're actually from District 12, although more well-dressed than the majority of the population were - before the bombing. I'm dressed all in black - in black jeans, even with room for my belly, a black turtleneck and a leather jacket. The clothes are hugging every curve of my body, they must have been tailored, and I know it's not a coincidence. They want to show off my pregnancy. A stylist I've never seen before even braided my hair and did my discreet make-up. She doesn't say anything to me, and I find myself missing my prep team.

I swallow hard. I wonder where they are. If they are even alive.

Peeta is dressed in District 12 civilian clothes, too. Gale, however, is dressed in what can only be a District 13 uniform – but it's clearly been tailored to fit his body, unlike most of the other uniforms I've seen in District 13 so far. That's surely not a coincidence, either. I look at him out of the corner of my eye, and I think to myself that if Coin wants to target any female older than 12 in Panem, she's certainly found the perfect way to do so.

The baby is awake. I've started thinking about it as the baby now, not just "it". After it started kicking – a lot – it gradually started to seem wrong to just think of it as a thing. I absentmindedly put a hand on my belly, just where the baby is kicking, as I'm looking out of the window. Under me, I see the forest, seemingly never ending. It's all that separates District 13 from what used to be Twelve. We're flying low, to try to avoid the Capitol radar, even though we're flying in stealth mode.

And then, for the first time, I feel it – I feel the movements against my hand. Without thinking, I reach out for Peeta's hand, and place it where mine used to be. He looks at me, confused, but then he looks down at his hand in wonder. "Is that…?"

I nod.

"Wow. That's…" He smiles, the biggest and most genuine smile I've seen in ages, and it's impossible not to smile back when he's this enthusiastic. I notice Gale looking at us, and I wonder what he's thinking. He looks stern, distant. Not that I can blame him, really, considering where we are going – and why.

Peeta's hand stays on my belly for the rest of the trip, even though the baby falls asleep after just a few minutes and doesn't kick anymore.

* * *

I had expected it to be hard, but I hadn't thought it would be **this** hard. We're getting very clear orders – if the early warning system alerts us of an imminent Capitol attack, which means they know we are here, we are to leave immediately. No questions asked, no hesitation. I'm not used to following orders, and I'm certainly not very good at it, but I promise I'll do as I'm instructed.

The hovercraft lets us down on the field where we left District 12, just a few days ago.

The Victors' Village is gone. Our houses are burned to the ground, the only things left standing are the chimneys. I had been hoping there could be something to salvage – perhaps some of the few things we had left after my dad. My mockingjay pin. Pictures, even.

As I stand there, looking at the ruins of what used to be our house, and knowing Prim and mother's house is the same, I realize everything is gone. The only images I will have of my father, for the rest of my life, will be the ones in my head.

They will have to be enough.

The stench from the smoke is making me feel nauseous again, but I fight it back. I need to see, I need to understand.

But after all, they were only houses. Only five persons lived here – and we are all safe in District 13. Still alive. What we have lost are only things, only memories.

Going to the Seam, and finally, to town, will be the main test. We go to the Seam first. His voice low, with a barely restrained anger, Gale tells us – and the camera – of what happened that night. How dark it was. About the rain. About the electricity that suddenly went out. Before, this was something that happened all the time, he wouldn't have thought twice about it. But lately, District 12 had had electricity 24 hours a day. Everyone knew it was because of the fence – the electric circuits were old, from just after the Great War that preceded the Hunger Games. They couldn't turn off the electricity of the fence without turning off electricity to the rest of District 12. The only exception was the mines, which were always provided with power, even when Panem needed to save energy and directed the power elsewhere. To more important districts than lowly, forgotten Twelve.

But lately, District 12 had become one of the most important districts, and everyone knew it was because of me. The Mockingjay.

So when the power went out, Gale knew that something was wrong. Very wrong. He managed to get his family and some of the closest neighbors, as well as some people who just happened to be passing by in the dark, to follow him. Listening to him talk, I understand how he managed to convince them to go with him. The dark, convincing passion in his voice, the intensity of his eyes.

"And then we heard the hovercrafts," he says, his voice very low now. "We ran towards the trees, I thought we needed to get away from the houses, where we would be trapped. That the Seam and the town would be the primary targets, no one would bother to destroy a forest." He pauses, it's obvious it's hard for him to continue. "And then, we saw them come in. We saw just the lights. There weren't that many, only six or seven in formation. The first wave of attacks, we hardly understood what was happening. We heard something falling through the air, just… Some kind of faint whistling. The hovercrafts disappeared. It was pitch black. And then…"

We have reached the Seam. On the road in front of us, we see the first body. Gale sinks down on his knees in front of it.

It's a woman. She must have tried to run away from the inferno, but she was caught by the flames in the end after all. Her lower body is destroyed by the flames, but her upper body hasn't been injured that badly. She's lying on her belly, with one hand stretched out in front of her. The skin of her hand, untouched by fire, is rough, calloused, the nails broken. She has the hand that every Seam woman has – marked by years of hard work and doing laundry by hand in the ice cold creek. A tear rolls down his cheek as he whispers: "Anna!" and I realize that he knew her. He knew this woman. I want to close my eyes, to shut this image out forever, but I realize that I know her, too. I've traded some squirrels for candles with her in the Hob, long ago.

"… then the fire bombs exploded," he continues, his voice more steady now as he looks into the clouded eyes of Anna, the hard-working mother of three hungry children. Peeta sits down next to him, and he surprises me by reaching out a hand and closing her eyes, very gently.

"The Seam caught fire," Gale says. "Everything was infused with coal dust. One bomb would've been enough, really, but then more people would've had the chance to escape, and they didn't want that. It was a gigantic ball of fire, taller than a tree, raging. We heard the screams, of the people who didn't escape, who had nowhere to go." He's staring at the body in front of him, and I know what he's thinking – that her screams were among the ones he heard.

"Then the hovercrafts came in for a second round of attack, just a few minutes later. At first we thought they were after us, that we were going to die. But then they passed us, and we realized that they were headed for the town." Peeta makes a strange, strangled sound when Gale says this, and it's not hard to understand the reason. This is the story of how his family was killed. "The same thing happened again, only this time we could see the planes better, because everything was lit up by the flames from the Seam. The planes dropped the bombs – and then they left. The town didn't burn as quickly as the Seam did, but I think they dropped more bombs to compensate. The attack was meticulously planned. The wall of fire grew, and I thought, what if they come back? There was nowhere to go, nowhere we could be safe. Then I remembered that the electricity of the fence was probably still off. The last thing we saw before we ventured into the woods, was the tower of the Hall of Justice. It was hovering above the flames, it was as if it was flying. Then, suddenly, it fell, into the inferno below. With a cloud of sparks, it disappeared."

We walk towards the Seam, and as we do, there are more bodies scattered on the ground. Many are unrecognizable, destroyed by the flames, but some we can identify, like Anna. I recognize Emre, a boy who was in my class. He must have started working in the mines only recently. He lies next to a baby, and I realize it is probably his. I didn't even know he was married. He tried to save his child, and he failed. Peeta sees me struggle as we pass them, and he takes my hand, his warm fingers closing around mine. Our breaths are white in the cold October air. I've long since forgotten about the cameras.

The Seam is in ruins. All the houses were built of wood, the cheapest material available in District 12, and together with the coal dust, it was a death trap. I can just barely make out where the narrow streets used to be. I find the house where we lived before we moved to the Victors' Village. There is nothing left but a smoking ruin. A charred body lies just outside the house, and I wonder who lived here after we moved.

Then we go to the town. Where the Seam was the biggest hurdle for Gale and me, I know this is what will feature in Peeta's nightmares tonight. The town isn't as badly injured as the Seam, as more houses here were made of bricks. They are completely burned out, but it's easier to make out the individual houses, where the walls used to be. I don't think any of us had made any plans of where to go first, but automatically, our feet seem to carry us to one location: The Mellark bakery.

As we stop outside what used to be the bakery, I'm not at all surprised to see that tears are streaming down Peeta's cheeks. "Please, don't let there be any visible bodies," I think. "Please, don't let him see them." I'm intensely relieved to see, through my own veil of tears, that there aren't any bodies in the immediate vicinity of the house, unlike many other houses. Then I remember that the bombing occurred at night. Peeta's family were bakers. They rose early, and went early to bed. They most likely died in their beds, their bodies hidden underneath the rubble that used to be their house. Peeta wants to go closer, but I stop him. "Don't," I murmur to him, holding him back. "Don't go in there." It's not only that I'm afraid of what he might find in there, I'm afraid the construction of the house – what is still standing – might crumble and fall, too.

We stay there for a long time, our arms wrapped around each other. I try to comfort him, but there's no real consolation that I can give him.

One of the soldiers discreetly tells us that it's time to go. We were allowed one hour on the ground, it is deemed to unsafe for us to stay longer. The longer we stay, the bigger the chance of being detected by the Capitol. They still don't know that I'm alive, but if they do find out, I'm their biggest prize, the one they want to kill or capture at nearly any cost.

As long as they don't have to go up against the nuclear weapons of District 13.

Peeta releases me, and he bends down to pick up a small rock, covered in soot. He clutches it in his hand. I look at what's left of the town, the ruins, and without thinking, I say: "There can be no forgiveness for this. No forgiveness."

Only after do I realize that it was all captured on film.

We walk back to the Meadow, Peeta with the stone now in the pocket of his pants. As we pass what used to be our house, I hear a strange sound. It's so familiar, but seems strange only because of its context – of life, and normalcy, in this district of death.

It's a miaow.

Buttercup.

His mangy tail is the first thing I see, behind a pile of rubble. Then he comes towards me, looking about as angry and ugly as usual. I don't know how he managed to survive the fire, but he seems just fine. Not as much as a whisker has been singed. "Want to come with us, Buttercup? Prim misses you."

I don't know if he understands, but he follows us to the hovercraft. He hates me, but perhaps he's understood that I mean food – or perhaps he understood the word "Prim". I have to play my Mockingjay card to be allowed to bring Buttercup onto the hovercraft. The captain is not happy, but when we silently say farewell to District 12 through the window, seeing it disappear behind us, it's with Buttercup in my lap.

* * *

We return just in time for dinner. I thought they would refuse to let Buttercup into the eating hall, but no one says anything about it at all. When I look at Peeta and Gale – both dirty and full of soot, Peeta has clearly been crying – I realize why. I also realize I don't look much better. I see the smoky fire and rage in Gale's gray eyes, and I know it's mirrored in my own.

All chatter stills as we enter, with Buttercup walking behind me. There is none of the laughter and cheering of this morning. They all know where we've been. "Buttercup!" Prim shouts, and the ugliest cat in the world runs towards her, purring and licking her nose when she lifts him up. I wonder if they'll let her keep him. I haven't seen any pets around here, they probably don't keep anything which isn't productive. Fun isn't enough, everything here needs to fulfill a purpose, to ensure survival.

No one from Twelve asks us anything, I guess one look at our faces is enough. We have all lost so much. Gale and I still have our families, but Peeta has lost everyone. So many of the survivors have. We all share the same pain. To my surprise, Madge grabs my hand as I walk by her. She clings to it, almost desperately, and I stop, looking at her, squeezing her hand. It's clear she has been crying.

I open my mouth as if to speak, but there's nothing I can say. I saw the ruins of her house, and I know her parents were buried somewhere in the ruins. I know she'd be there, too, if she hadn't snuck out to be with Gale that night.

Madge used to be my friend – as close to a female friend as I had, anyway. I never understood why she would put up with me. She was pretty and smart and her father was the mayor. Why she wanted to spend time with me – the antisocial and dirt poor Seam girl – was always beyond me. It still is. Right now, she is one of the few links to my childhood that still exist. I'm not much of a hugger usually, but I find myself giving her a hug anyway. Here, in public. I even surprise myself, even though the hug is short an awkward. "I'm so sorry," I whisper in her ear.

* * *

After I've finished dinner, which I couldn't quite identify, Plutarch Heavensbee comes up to me. "You have a meeting in Command in ten minutes." I glance at my wrist. Nothing. He notices my look. "Be there. All three of you." I scowl. I have a feeling I know what the meeting is going to be about.

I'm not surprised when President Coin is there. She's looking at footage that was filmed earlier today, in twelve. She looks at Peeta closing Anna's eyes, and she says: "That's excellent stuff, put that in." I hear Peeta make a strangled noise next to me, but he doesn't say anything. His eyes are fixed on the floor, he refuses to look up at the screen. Plutarch is there, and to my surprise, so is Haymitch. He looks terrible, but at least he doesn't appear to be hallucinating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says to me, his skin yellowish and his eyes bloodshot.

"You look like hell," I tell him.

"Thanks. You too," he answers, snickering.

"I just came back from hell," I say slowly.

"I know," he answers. Our eyes meet, and again I'm struck by how we seem to understand each other in a way that no one else can. Not even Peeta.

"So, Katniss, have you been thinking about what we talked about yesterday?" Coin certainly doesn't waste any time.

I sit down by the table, even though no one invited me to. I lean back, nonchalantly, or at least I hope that's what it looks like.

"Why were you acting like I already have? I didn't consent to being filmed."

She immediately understands what I mean. "We needed footage now, we couldn't wait. Things are really bad in the districts, we need to start airing propos as soon as we can." Her arrogance is really rubbing me the wrong way, but I know this will be my only chance to negotiate, so I choose to ignore it. I take a deep breath.

_"Yeah, so this is the deal. I'll be your Mockingjay." I wait so they can make their sounds of relief, congratulate, slap one another on the back. Coin stays as impassive as ever, watching me, unimpressed. "But I have some conditions."_ I pause for effect _"I kill Snow_," I say.

Coin lifts a perfectly manicured gray eyebrow. _"When the time comes, I'll flip you for it."_ There's a smile playing on her lips.

I shake my head. "Not good enough. The odds have never been in my favor. I kill Snow."

Coin studies me closely, her eyes holding mine. I stare back, dark gray against silver gray, a silent stand-still. Finally, she answers: "Okay. I'm guessing that's not the end of your list?" There is a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

_"My family gets to keep our cat."_ This request, which I hadn't thought would be such a big deal, is suddenly is big problem, and I'm glad I brought it up now. If I hadn't, I'm sure Buttercup would've been dead by morning. In fact, he would quite probably have been served as breakfast. There is a heated debate, but in the end it's agreed that Prim and my mother will get new quarters, a place where there is a tiny window – just large enough for Buttercup to come and go as he pleases. He will get his own litter box, and even a food allowance, although he is expected to hunt for mice. I roll my eyes, and tell them I'll make sure to let Buttercup know he has to keep up with his daily rodent quota. But I'm not done.

_"I want to hunt. With Gale. Out in the wood," I say. This gives everyone pause. "We won't go far,"_ I continue. _"We'll use our own bows. You can have the meat for the kitchen." _Peeta looks surprised, but doesn't object. Neither does Gale. I'm sure he's not happy about being holed up underground 24 hours a day, either. Besides, hunting together is both safer and more effective.

But most of all, I know that I'll need an escape, to breathe freely. To see the sun, breathe in the fresh air. District 13 is threatening to suffocate me already. I'm a hunter, not prey - I wasn't made to live underground like a rabbit.

_Plutarch begins to explain the drawbacks here – the dangers, the extra security, the risk of injury – but Coin cuts him off. "No. Let them. Give them two hours a day, deducted from their training time. A quarter-mile radius. With communication units and tracker anklets. What's next?" _

I take a deep breath. This is something I really should've discussed with Peeta first, but I just haven't found the right time. "I won't be Katniss Mellark anymore, I'll be Katniss Everdeen."

I turn to look at Peeta, and he looks hurt. Confused. "Katniss?" he says, questioningly.

"Do you want us to annul your marriage?" Coin says dryly, and she's looking at my belly with a badly concealed smirk. "Because we can do that if you wish. We know this is something you were forced to do by Snow. I'm sure we can easily come up with a law paragraph somewhere, you wouldn't even have to get divorced, it would be as if the wedding never happened." And I think, no, it could never be as if the wedding never happened. It's not something you can undo with some signatures on a paper. "We can't do much about the consequences, though." The barely hidden sarcasm is back.

I narrow my eyes. "That's not what I meant. I don't want an annulment. I just want to get my maiden name back. I'm not Katniss Mellark, I never was. That was Snow's invention. I'm Katniss Everdeen. Every time someone calls me Mrs Mellark, I think they are talking about Peeta's mother. And if we're going to pull off this Mockingjay thing, I think it will work better with me as Katniss Everdeen. That's the name the people of Panem got to know me by in the arena, anyway."

Coin looks at Plutarch, who shrugs. "I guess you have a point. Anything else?" Her voice is practically dripping with sarcasm now.

"Yes." This is the hardest part. "I get to call the shots with this pregnancy and beyond. There will be no scheduled c-section, or scans or diagnostic procedures that I don't agree to."

"I can't agree to that," Coin objects. "Babies are very precious to us here in District 13. We have to provide them with the best medical care that we possibly can. This one in particular. " I remember someone whispering about a pox epidemic long ago yesterday. That District 13 has had problems with infertility and deformed children ever since. And that we, from District 12, are very much needed here, that they didn't just take us in out of the goodness of their hearts. We are fresh blood, fresh genetic material. Fresh oocytes and spermatozoa, uninjured by the pox virus.

"I'm not asking you to allow me to put my baby in any danger, I simply want to be in charge of my own body," I tell her.

"The answer is no."

"Then fuck it," I hiss. "Good luck finding yourself another Mockingjay." I get up from the table and start to walk towards the door.

As I had hoped, I'm interrupted by Coin before I have the chance to leave. "Okay… Okay. But that's the end of it, is that clear?" I turn around, being careful keep the triumph out of my eyes. I had guessed that my baby wouldn't mean that much to Coin in the end, despite her talking about how precious children are to District 13. _"But you'd better perform." _She pauses. She bends forward over the table, and her gray sheet of perfect hair actually moves ever so slightly. "You better be devoted to our cause, Mrs Everdeen. _Any deviance from_ our _mission_, _either in motive or in deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement."_

_In other words, I step out of line and _I lose what little I have left of control over my own life and my own child – and my chance to get revenge.

I remember something I read in a history book in school. Long ago, in the dark ages before Panem rose from the ashes, there was a book called The Holy Bible. It was used to oppress people and create divisions between populations and countries, and the teacher read excerpts from the book to show us how cruel it was. One of them was "an eye for an eye". I wonder if that's what this is? A life for a life. But opposite, in a twisted way – revenging the creation of one life by the taking of another.

But then again, everyone knows their history books were full of lies. Perhaps there never was a book called The Holy Bible anyway. Perhaps it was just another Capitol creation.

* * *

After the meeting, I manage to get lost in the crowd. I manage to get away from Peeta, to be alone. Deep in District 13, I find a closet where I can hide.

I completely ignore the schedules printed on my wrist the following days. The only appointments I attend, are the meal times – and going hunting with Gale. We're not allowed to go far, which seriously impedes our hunting, but at least I feel almost… free. The late October air is sharp and fresh against my pale skin, and I drink in the cold fall sun rays as if I've never seen the sun before.

I hate living underground.

I wish I could bring Peeta, but I know he's so noisy we'd scare away any pray around. Perhaps I can talk Coin into taking him one day anyway, though. I'm sure he'd enjoy being outside, too. I feel guilty for not including him in my bargaining, not providing him with this escape – but taking Gale instead.

It is great to be with Gale, though. It's not like it used to be, back when we were hunting partners. Before the mines, before the Hunger Games. Before Peeta and Madge. The woods are different, too, unknown to us. Most of the plants are the same, but not all of them. We have to get to know this new habitat. Where do the animals go? We move silently, communicating by looks and gestures, perfected through years of working together. We're still a well-oiled team.

I tire more easily, though. Where I would just run without even thinking about it three years ago, I now have to stop to catch my breath. When I want to use the slick trunk of a fallen-down tree to get to the other side of a creek, Gale stops me. I'm secretly grateful, afterwards, because I feel that my balance is off. I didn't notice in District 13, or by the end in District 12, because I haven't really done anything requiring much balance. I've been walking on floors and concrete roads. But here, it's clear what the pregnancy is doing to my body. Gale doesn't comment on it, but I can tell from the looks he's giving me now and then, when he thinks I don't see, that he notices it, too. He can't stop looking at the bump.

After about an hour, he sits down on a clearing by a small river, giving me a few wild apples he found a little while ago. I guess we are supposed to bring them home with us to give to the District 13 kitchens, but this small act of rebellion – eating more than the calculated daily calorie count – is somehow making me giddy. I don't think an apple has ever tasted better.

"So, Mrs Mockingjay, how are you?" He asks me, emphasizing the "Mrs". I blush, remembering that he probably heard us the other night, too.

I shrug. "Just… trying not to think." There's no point in answering that I'm okay. He knows I'm not. "You?"

He doesn't shrug, though. "I want to end this. I want Panem to come crashing down. I want us to be free. No more slaving in the mines, no more starving children." The intensity of his gaze surprises me, and I can't help but think that Coin just might have her alternate Mockingjay in Gale if she tires of me and my demands. "They're going to show the propo with footage from District 12 to us tonight," he continues, as if reading my mind. "Beetee is going to hack into the Capitol TV systems." They must be telling Gale more than they tell me – not that I can blame them. Gale must be a much bigger asset to them than I am, I bet Coin is cursing Snow for making **me** the Mockingjay. I'm stubborn, unpredictable, and I make demands. He grins at me. "The Capitol don't even know you're alive, Katniss," he says, starting to eat apple number two. "It will be amazing. I wish I could see Snow's face when he sees that propo."

I chuckle. "So do I."

* * *

It turns out there is such a thing as mandatory viewing in District 13, too. They show the propo during dinner. Coin is there as well, holding a speech. She talks about how I've agreed to be the Mockingjay, and after the applause, she goes on to make thinly veiled threats about what will happen if I don't play my part.

There is a power struggle between us, I realize. She is the president, the leader of the rebellion – yet to some degree I have power that she doesn't. I'm a symbol in a way that she isn't. She needs me. But I need her as well - with my growing belly I'm vulnerable.

And then they show the propo. It's impressively professionally done – I've had to watch a lot of Panem propaganda over the years, so I immediately see that this one is good. It starts with footage of flames – I realize it must be from some kind of surveillance camera in District 12. How they got hold of the footage is beyond me, but what I see is sickening. It's from the Seam, and we can see houses on fire, smoke, crying children and people trying to run away. Choking as they fall to the ground. Some persons can even be identified, and I hear crying from the District 12 table. I know some of them recognize their parent, child, neighbor, friend.

Damn you, Coin.

But then, the flames change, they fill the screen – and out of them, I walk. The footage must be from that hour in District 12, because I'm wearing the clothes I was wearing that day. I see now why they made me wear them. I look riveting, actually – dark and dangerous dressed all in black, the clothes hugging my curves and accentuating my belly. I'm very obviously pregnant. I'm also very obviously angry. And on top of that, I'm very much from District 12.

I look unforgiving.

"The Capitol thought they'd get rid of the Mockingjay by shamefully bombing an entire district into oblivion," a voiceover says, "but the girl on fire lives. Thousands of people were killed in District 12, but some survivors remain." Then Peeta and Gale walk out of the flames as well, one on either side of me. We're quite the riveting trio. Then they show footage of us looking at our houses in the Victors' Village. Peeta closing the eyes of Anna, lying burned and dead on the ground. They don't conceal anything – they brazenly do close-ups of dead people, even when they can be identified. Smoking ruins. An abandoned doll, lying in the ashes. The October sun, cold and pale, creates an almost unreal look, in some shots it looks almost like I have a halo. The reds and yellows of the maple trees in the background, untouched by the fire bombs, seem perfect for me - the girl on fire. The voice goes on to tell a short version of how Gale saved the people from the Seam, interspersed with a few of his own quotes. He looks dashingly handsome with his dark hair and gray eyes, and I realize that they're building him, too. Coin wants to use Gale in her well-oiled propaganda machine. He actually plays a more prominent role in the propo than Peeta does, although there is some footage of us holding hands, and even of me comforting him by his parents' house. They don't focus on him, though – they focus on the look of hatred on my face as I stare at where the bakery used to be.

Predictably, the propo ends with me saying: ""There can be no forgiveness for this. No forgiveness." I'm actually surprised when I see myself – I had no idea I looked that dark, mesmerizing and convincing. I'm not a good actress. The intensity of the moment that's clearly shining through is there simply because it's what I felt. Right there and then.

The last shot is of a burning mockingjay image, with a text saying: "Fire is catching."

There is applause as it ends, Coin is congratulated and there's cheering. She goes down to me, I guess she needs to be seen with me, everyone needs to see the connection between us. Her pale eyes don't betray any emotion when they meet mine. I expect her to say something along the lines of good job, but instead she just shakes my hand and says: "Keep it up."

I don't answer.

* * *

We try to adapt to life in District 13. People from Twelve aren't really used to being controlled, at least not as rigorously as we are now.

Some adjust better than others. My mother and Prim are working in the hospital, and I'm not surprised that they quickly get into a routine. My mother seems almost happy - she's given responsibilities that she's never had the chance to have before, and there is much more equipment and medicine available here than in District 12. She's not a certified doctor, of course, but it seems like her knowledge is actually being valued here. Prim seems to be some kind of intern. She's working very long hours, perhaps it's partly to drown the shock and pain from what we have been through, but she seems determined.

I ignore everything on my schedule but meal times and the daily two-hour hunting trip. The rest of the time, I try my best to just be invisible. I either stay in our room, or I find a place to hide. Sometimes I just roam the underground tunnels, trying to memorize all of them, but I hate being underground. It reminds me too much of how dad died. Peeta is a much better District 13 newcomer than me, showing up to most of his appointments. He tries to keep up with me, but he's conflicted by my obvious disdain of my schedule and his desire to be with me, and his conscience, telling him to do as he's told.

After I've missed two appointments with Dr Aurelius in a row, I suddenly find that he's sitting next to me at breakfast the next day. "We're going to my office after breakfast," he says, and his voice doesn't leave any room for discussion. I scowl, I'm not happy about being outed as being a psychiatric patient in front of everyone who's left of my old district, but it doesn't seem like they care. They're used to me behaving strangely, I guess.

I've done it since I was 11 years old.

Dr Aurelius' office is small and cramped. There aren't any personal effects, photos or children's drawings. It's all medical textbooks and stacks of old journals. There are tissues available, though, and even a couch. It seems like a Capitol TV show, it's almost too much of a cliché.

Dr Aurelius does most of the talking. I try to ignore most of what he's saying, but I do have to answer him sometimes. We fall into a routine – I go to his office every morning after breakfast. When I try not to go, I'm being escorted there by guards. Dr Aurelius didn't exaggerate – my being here is obviously very important to Coin. When I ask him why this is so important, he answers:

"Because District 13 can't use a Mockingjay who's a nervous wreck."

I roll my eyes. It seems a bit harsh, calling me a nervous wreck.

He asks about my childhood. About when my father died. When we almost starved to death. My relationship with my mother. The bread. The reaping, my volunteering. My relationship with Peeta. Prim. The Hunger Games. What came after – how we were forced to marry, how we grew together, how I got pregnant. The drugs, the alcohol, the nightmares. He seems particularly interested in the nightmares and my reactions to my pregnancy. I don't really want to talk about any of it, but he's exceptionally good at getting me to talk about stuff I didn't really want to say. I guess there's a reason he became a psychiatrist. I know Peeta goes to him sometimes, too, and Annie. She goes to him every day, like I do. Once, I see Finnick, too, in the waiting room. None of us ever speak of it.

Sometimes he uses words I don't understand.

Post-traumatic stress disorder.

Major depressive disorder.

Substance abuse.

Paranoid personality disorder.

Sleep disturbances.

Suicidal ideation.

Antisocial behavior.

Body dysmorphic disorder.

Generalized anxiety disorder.

He doesn't say what the words mean, and I don't ask.

* * *

**UPDATE:**

_**I'd like to clarify something regarding the part about the Bible. I would've PMed the clarification if I could, but the review was from a guest called Jesus is Lord, so I didn't know who you are. I also got another anonymous review which said basically the same thing a few hours later as well. Anyway, I think you both missed my point, or perhaps my point just wasn't clear enough. You wrote: "but the part about the Bible being used to oppress people rubbed me up the wrong way. Religious people aren't oppressed but given faith and freedom, and that is something you shouldn't knock".**_

_**I'm not knocking anything. Please remember that this fic is written in Katniss' POV, and she's grown up under a totalitarian regime, where free thinking and – I strongly suspect – religion would be considered a threat to the regime. As far as I recall, there are no mentions of religion at all in the books, and I don't think it's a coincidence. Religion – any religion – would be dangerous to Snow's Capitol, for the exact same reasons you mention in your review. Schools (at least in this fic, but I think the basic concept was also mentioned in the books? I don't have the first book here right now, so I can't double check it) were used for indoctrination and basically only existed to train workers that could produce the food and other commodities that the Capitol needed - not to promote free, independent thinking at all. I think it's very likely that the Capitol would use schools as a means of spreading a very biased view on religion, starting the anti-religious indoctrination early. This would be true for any religion, really, but the USA being a (mainly) Christian country, I think they would specifically target Christianity (plus that's my cultural background as well, I couldn't really quote anything else LOL). So I am NOT saying that the Bible is used to oppress people or that Christianity is bad in any way, I'm saying that this is what the Capitol taught Katniss and every other child in Panem, for the reasons I explained earlier. And as you can read from the chapter, she doesn't really believe in what she was taught in school, anyway. She knows far too much about the Capitol to ever do that.**_

_**I hope that made it clearer. No offense was intended at all, in fact, quite the opposite. Religion would be a very strong counter-force to the Capitol, and religion would (probably) need to be banned to control the population of the districts. What I was originally thinking of when I wrote that passage was something along what you can read in the Wikipedia article on Religion in the Soviet Union (I can't link to it because FFN doesn't allow it, but you can easily google it). I don't know if Suzanne Collins was thinking of the Soviet Union when she wrote The Hunger Games trilogy, but it's certainly not the first time I've thought of that and other similar regimes when reading the books. **_

_**So peace&love&understanding, everyone.**_


	26. Chapter 26: Child's play

_**And with this chapter, this story officially rounds the 100,000 words mark. Yay! Who would've thought, considering I said I wouldn't write a sequel to The Wedding… LOL**_

_**Mockingjay quotes are still in italics.**_

_**I'd also like to clarify something regarding the part about the Bible in the previous chapter. I wasn't going to post this chapter now, but I realized from some reviews that I need to clear something up sooner rather than later, so you'll get the chapter several days earlier than I had originally planned to post it. Because it's posted so soon, it's also shorter than I'd originally planned, as I had to divide the chapter in two, so sorry about that. I would've PMed the clarification if I could, but the review was from a guest called Jesus is Lord, so I didn't know who you are. I also got another anonymous review which said basically the same thing a few hours later as well. Anyway, I think you both missed my point, or perhaps my point just wasn't clear enough. You wrote: "but the part about the Bible being used to oppress people rubbed me up the wrong way. Religious people aren't oppressed but given faith and freedom, and that is something you shouldn't knock". **_

_**I'm not knocking anything. Please remember that this fic is written in Katniss' POV, and she's grown up under a totalitarian regime, where free thinking and – I strongly suspect – religion would be considered a threat to the regime. As far as I recall, there is no mention of religion at all in the books, and I don't think it's a coincidence. Religion – any religion – would be dangerous to Snow's Capitol, for the exact same reasons you mention in your review. Schools (at least in this fic, but I think the basic concept was also mentioned in the books? I don't have the first book here right now, so I can't double check it) were used for indoctrination and basically only existed to train workers that could produce the food and other commodities that the Capitol needed - not to promote free, independent thinking at all. I think it's very likely that the Capitol would use schools as a means of spreading a very biased view on religion, starting the anti-religious indoctrination early. This would be true for any religion, really, but the USA being a (mainly) Christian country, I think they would specifically target Christianity (plus that's my cultural background as well, I couldn't really quote anything else LOL). So I am NOT saying that the Bible is used to oppress people or that Christianity is bad in any way, I'm saying that this is what the Capitol taught Katniss and every other child in Panem, for the reasons I explained earlier. And as you can read from the chapter, she doesn't really believe in what she was taught in school, anyway. She knows far too much about the Capitol to ever do that. **_

_**I hope that made it clearer. No offense was intended at all, in fact, quite the opposite. Religion would be a very strong counter-force to the Capitol, and religion would (probably) need to be banned to control the population of the districts. What I was originally thinking of when I wrote that passage was something along what you can read in the Wikipedia article on Religion in the Soviet Union (I can't link to it because FFN doesn't allow it, but you can easily google it). I don't know if Suzanne Collins was thinking of the Soviet Union when she wrote The Hunger Games trilogy, but it's certainly not the first time I've thought of that and other similar regimes when reading the books. So peace&love&understanding, everyone. **_

* * *

**Chapter 26: Child's play**

For the first few days after the propo started airing, I guess it is enough for them. They can show it over and over again - and they do. They also broadcast other propos, telling the true story of how District 12 was destroyed not because the poor, underfed, uneducated citizens of District 12 had access to advanced biological weapons, but because Snow needed to set an example – and he needed to get rid of me. Beetee comes to tell me how successfully they have been able to penetrate the broadcasting networks of Panem, and about the havoc the propos caused – the first one in particular. "They are rebelling in all districts but Two now" he says with a smile. "They've rebelled before, but after that first airing of the propo from District eight… They went wild. Just wild. It was like all the frustration and anger that had built up over the years was just… released all at once." They are sending in weapons and food from District 13, helping the rebels, as well as providing lines of communication.

There's a full blown war now. It's fueled by the image of the Mockingjay.

If only they knew that their precious Mockingjay prefers to spend most of the day in a closet. Where no one can see her.

This is, of course, not an image that District 13 could ever project of me, and I'm not surprised when, after a few days, I have a Command appointment at 0900 tattooed onto the inside of my arm. I want to ignore it, too, as I have ignored so many other appointments – classes, work, training. But I think of how Coin is grooming Gale, and how I need to stay useful, indispensable to Coin if I am to achieve my goal. So I go, and Peeta seems relieved that he doesn't have to try to talk me into going.

I'm not surprised when we meet Gale there outside the door, either. He seems to be everywhere I go these days, at least when I'm anywhere near Coin. There is a new person there as well as the usual suspects, someone called Boggs. I do my best to ignore all of them, sitting down by the table before anyone tells me to sit. I feel more comfortable sitting, as my belly isn't that noticeable then. Now, at nearly 22 weeks, it's otherwise impossible to miss.

I'm in a foul mood, and I'm sure I'm not hiding it very well, because Coin raises an eyebrow, and Haymitch murmurs: "Such a sunny disposition." I'd scowl at him if I cared. Coin seems to want to smooth it over, though. "That was quite a performance in District 12, you three," she says, actually smiling, although I don't think I like her smile any more than I like the rest of her. "It's made a massive impact on the rebellion in the districts, and caused havoc in the Capitol, according to our informants." Their spies. "Snow is furious, and apparently heads are rolling." Coin actually smiles as she says this, and I feel sick just thinking about me having the blood of even more people on my hands. "We feel that it's right to do what we can to continue what we've started with the propos, and we need to make another one as soon as possible."

I narrow my eyes. "What's with the clothes?"

"What do you mean?"

"The way you dress me up." I gesture down to the tight fitting clothes I'm wearing, getting up to truly show what I mean. "Why are you emphasizing the fact that I'm pregnant? You did the same thing in the propo as well. You know as well as I do that this baby is Snow's creation, it's a symbol of the power he had over us – why would you want to emphasize that?" From the corner of my eye I see that Peeta looks sad, but he doesn't say anything.

"That's where you're wrong, Katniss," Coin says. "To the people of Panem, your baby doesn't represent Snow's power over you at all. To them, the baby represents hope, even more strongly than you yourself do, as the Mockingjay. Your pregnant body is proof that life can prevail over destruction."

I bite my lower lip, and slump down on the chair again. I find it hard to believe that me being pregnant can have any kind of positive effect on the rebellion, but I do realize that I'm probably projecting my own feeling about my pregnancy on the situation.

Dr Aurelius has mentioned his worry of what will happen when the baby is born. How I'll react.

I ignore him when he talks about it. I can't think about it. If I do, I might never be able to get out of the closet ever again.

Reluctantly, I agree to making a new propo.

* * *

I miss my prep team.

The prep team District 13 has been able to come up with just isn't the same. A man called Fraco is doing my hair, and a woman called Diania is doing my nails and make-up. Even they are dressed in gray, drab District 13 clothes, free of make-up and with anonymous haircuts. I find it hard to believe that a true prep team would care so little about their own appearance.

They're not as good as my own prep team, either. Even I, having zero interest in fashion, hair and make-up, can see that. They're also expecting me to talk, about things that don't involve make-up and gossip. With my team, I knew exactly how to set them off, and they'd be happily chatting about nothing for hours. Which left me to just relax and slip in some "ohs" and "wows" from time to time.

They're also not as nice. I guess I didn't realize how much I liked Flavius, Venia and Octavia until they weren't around anymore. I feel guilty for snapping at them and secretly thinking they were silly, although endearing. How could I think of them as some kind of pets? I feel terrible thinking about it. I wonder where they are now? In the Capitol, surely. No one would bother to rescue a lowly prep team, even if they were mine. Have they been made into Avoxes as well? I remember Cinna, and I feel nauseous. Are they safe?

I don't think anyone who is close to me is safe.

I'll probably never get the opportunity to apologize to them.

The new prep team go for the same look I had in District 12 – dark and dramatic, but they layer it on pretty thick. Peeta and Gale are being prepped, too – they seem to keep trying to make us into a trio of some sort.

Before filming starts, Gale, Peeta and I are to report to Beetee down in Special Defence. I'm not really sure what Peeta's and – in particular – Gale's role in this propo is going to be, but I don't really care enough about the whole propo idea to ask. I'm happy to put the filming off for as long as possible, though, and I'm secretly curious to see what Beetee has been working on since he came here. I hear people talking about Beetee all the time, but I don't really know what he **does** – other than the fact that he's a vital component in the propaganda war Coin is currently waging on the Capitol.

I don't really know Beetee, I don't think I've ever talked to him. But I've understood that he has unique talents, particularly for a victor, and that he plays a vital role in the resistance. Haymitch has always thought highly of him, and if he's able to hack into the Capitol television system, he must be good. So yes, I'm curious.

_When we ask for Beetee, we're directed through the maze until we reach _a door marked "special weaponry", which is guarded by four soldiers. _Checking the schedules printed on our forearms is just a preliminary step. We also have finger-print, retinal and DNA scans, and have to step through special metal detectors. I find the whole thing bizarre because I can't imagine anyone raised in District 13 being a threat the government would have to guard against. Have these precautions been put in place because of the recent influx of immigrants? _

When we are finally, after a second round of DNA checks – as if our DNA would change from walking 20 meters down a corridor – we are allowed entry to the armory.

Not that I've ever been to an armory before, but it's so vast it _takes my breath away. Rows upon rows of firearms, launchers, explosives, armored vehicles. _Gale seems very interested, and asks lots of questions, even daring to touch some of the vehicles and guns. I'm too stunned by all of this to talk much, really – all I can think of is if District 13 has such a large amount of weapons, how much, then, does the Capitol have?

They must have much more.

The thought is frightening – I can't even begin to imagine how many lives could be taken by these weapons. I just watched District 12 up in flames with a tiny fraction of the firepower that is in this room.

Peeta looks distinctly uncomfortable. He's only looking, his hands behind his back as he walks down the rows upon rows of weapons. "Where are the nuclear weapons?" He finally asks. Beetee raises an eyebrow at his question, but doesn't answer. "What?" Peeta continues, seemingly annoyed now. "Those weapons are the only reason District 13 is still here, right? The only reason the Capitol hasn't bombed it into oblivion decades ago. Where are these weapons that are so terrible that even the Capitol backs off?"

Beetee shrugs. "They aren't here. They are stored in a secret location, and only a select few are allowed entry. I'm not one of them," he adds quickly, "and neither are you. I think it's better that way. Some things are just too terrible - it's better to leave then to your imagination." I somehow doubt it, and I'm surprised to hear those words coming from a victor. Doesn't he have nightmares, too? I wish I dared to ask. I don't even know what he went through to win the Hunger Games, how he survived. "Although," Beetee continues, "I hear they look deceptively innocent, as weapons go. Just… large missiles, not dissimilar to these ones," he says, as he makes a gesture towards some large rocket-like missiles along one wall. "The place where they make them apparently looks innocent enough, too, too. It's hard to believe that one bar of substance can be so deadly that everyone has to stay behind thick lead walls to survive. Makes the Hunger Games seem like child's play, doesn't it?"

"They were," I mutter. "Child's play, I mean."

«Yes,» Beetee sighs. «They were.»

«How old were you?» I suddenly find myself asking. "When you won the Hunger Games?"

"Sixteen. Like you." Beetee seems eager to change the subject. What did they do to you, Beetee? How many did you kill to get out of the arena alive, and how? What did Snow make you do after? No one is a victor by chance – and no victors are here in District 13 by chance, either. Beetee lifts up a _lethal-looking bow so loaded down with scopes and gadgetry, I'm certain I can't even lift it, let alone shoot it._

_"Gale, maybe you'd like to try out a few of these," says Beetee. _

_"Seriously?" Gale asks. _

_«You'll be issued a gun eventually for battle, of course. But if you appear as part of Katniss's team in the propos, one of these would look a little showier. I thought you might like to find one that suits you," says Beetee. _

_"Yeah, I would." _Gale is starting to look like a child in a candy story. He accepts the bow from Beetee, and examines it closely.

"_That doesn't seem very fair to the deer," I say._

_"Wouldn't be using it on deer, would I?" he answers._

_"So it'd be easy for you? Using that on people?" I ask._

_"I didn't say that." Gale drops the bow to his side. "But if I'd had a weapon that could've stopped _what happened _in Twelve… If I'd had a weapon that could have kept you out of the arena… I'd have used it." _

_"Me too," I admit. But I don't know what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you. _

Beetee picks up a tall, black rectangular case and hands it to me. "_For you." _I open it curiously yet a bit tentatively. I don't like surprises – they are generally not good, in my experience – and everything about District 13 is making me apprehensive. _Inside the case, on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, likes a stunning, black bow. _

_"Oh," I whisper in admiration. I lift it carefully into the air to admire the exquisite balance, the elegant design and the curve of the limbs that somehow suggests the wings of a bird extended in flight. There's something else. I have to hold it very still to make sure I'm not imagining it. No, the bow is alive in my hands. I press it against my cheek and feel the slight hum travel through the bones of my face. "What's it doing?" I ask._

_"Saying hello," explains Beetee with a grin. "It heard your voice." _

_"It recognizes my voice?" I ask._

_"ONLY your voice," he tells me. "You see, they wanted me to design a bow based purely on looks. As part of your costume, you know? But I kept thinking, what a waste. I mean, what if you do need it sometime? As more than a fashion accessory? So I left the outside simple, and left the inside to my imagineation. Best explained in practice, though. Want to try those out?"_

_We do. _I'm starting to understand the way Gale looked when he was given the bow. This one is very different, it looks simpler, but it feels as if the bow is… singing to me. It balances so perfectly in my hand, it's as if it belongs there. I'm starting to realize just how unique Beetee is, if he could make me this.

It turns out the bow is even more special than I'd thought. It comes with a variety of arrows, which _turn the bow into a multipurpose weapon. _Some are razor sharp, others are incendiary or explosive, _but I have the option of voice override at any time. To deactivate the bow's special properties, I need only tell it "goodnight". Then it goes to sleep until the sound of my voice wakes it again. _When I try it on the target range, it's clear that the bow is simply astounding. I'm a very competent archer, but I have never been able to shoot with this level of accuracy before. After just a few arrows that I need to adjust my aim with my new bow, I can _shoot with accuracy over one hundred meters. _Beside me, Gale is doing the same thing, while trying to figure out the advanced features on his bow. Peeta is standing the background, not really sulking, but he doesn't look happy, either. "Would you like to try it?" I ask him at one point, because I think that even Peeta, who's never been shooting before, could hit the target with this bow. It's almost like it shoots by itself, like the bow has a mind of its own.

He shakes his head.

"He can't, anyway," Beetee explains. "You're the only person who can use it, unless you tell it explicitly that it can be used by another person. Why don't you try handing it over to him?"

I do, and as soon as Peetaa's hand touches the bow, I feel as well as hear the difference. It's as if the bow turns into a dead item where it was alive in my hands just a few seconds ago. Peetaa looks puzzled. He can hear that the slight humming has stopped too. "It feels… So heavy," he says. "Dead." He hands it back to me. "Please take it. It wasn't made for me. I don't want any weapons in my hands, not ever again." There is a darkness in his eyes, and I know what he's thinking – of when he was teamed up with the Careers in the Hunger Games. What did he have to endure? I realize I never asked him.

Peetaa is all goodness and kindness. I can imagine how the Hunger Games must have made him want to avoid weapons for as long as he lives. For me, however, my bow kept me and my family alive, and those feelings override the memories from the arena. Where a bow to him is a weapon, which can be used to kill human beings, to me it's a means of survival. As I touch the bow, it comes back to life again, humming underneath my fingers. It doesn't feel heavy to me, it's light as a feather. Natural.

I slide my index finger along the curves of the bow, in awe, and notice that both Peeta and Gale are staring at me as I do.

The rest of the prepping is almost enjoyable, I'm in such a good mood because of the bow. Just looking at it, resting on velvet in a corner, is enough to almost make me forget about what I'm going to do, and why I'm going to do it. I even manage not to snap at my new prep team. When they are done, I look at myself on a monitor, I barely recognize myself.

This woman's _body seems larger in stature, more imposing than mine. Her face smudged but sexy. Her brows black and drawn in an angle of defiance. Wisps of smoke – suggesting she has either just been extinguished or is about to burst into flames – rise from her clothes. I do not know who this person is. _

_Finnick, who's been wandering around the set for a few hours, comes up behind me and says _with a hint of something I can't quite identify in his eyes, _They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you." _

_Everyone's so excited, so pleased with their work. It's nearly time to break for dinner, but they insist we continue. Tomorrow we'll focus on speeches and interviews and have me pretend to be in rebel battles. Today they want just one slogan, just one line that they can work into a short propo to show to Coin. _

_"People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" That's the line. I can tell by the way they present it that they've spent months, maybe years, working it out and are really proud of it. It seems like a mouthful to me, though. And stiff. I can't imagine anyone actually saying it in real life – unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it. Like when Gale and I used to imitate Effie Trinket's "May the odds be ever in your favor!" But Fulvia's right in my face, describing a battle I've just been in, and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me, and how, to rally the living, I must turn to the camera and shout out the line!_

_I'm hustled back to my place, and the smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the cameras start rolling, and I hear "Action!" So I hopd my bow over my head and yell with all the anger I can muster, "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!"_

_There's dead silence on the set. It goes on. And on._

_Finally, the intercom crackles and Haymitch's acerbic laugh fille the studio. He contains himself just long enough to say, "And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies."_


	27. Chapter 27: Together and alone

**_I've gotten quite a few concerned reviews regarding Chapter 26. And I just want to reassure you all - don't worry, this fic is, and will always remain, Everlark. But please remember that Katniss and Peeta are going through some really difficult things now, and that Katniss may not be as well equipped as Peeta is to deal with them. Plus, well, there's obviously a reason why she has all those appointments with Dr Aurelius in the first place. There is a long list of possible diagnoses in the previous chapter, and many of them won't exactly make you the perfect, understanding girlfriend (wife). Katniss is in a very, very dark place. If you draw a parallel to the novel, Katniss' mental health is rocky in most (or all) of Mockingjay, and this story is the AU mirror of the book (well, that's what I attempt, anyway, those are big shoes to fill!). And even though she has (a non-hijacked) Peeta by her side in this alternate story, she still has quite a few other problems on her hands._**

**_ But thank you so much for your feedback! I try to get back to everyone, but I'll more than likely miss some of you (my life is far too busy...), and I can't reply to the guests - but I really appreciate that you're taking your time to review and tell me what you think! It's also very useful when I try to determine where to go next and remind me of things I may have overlooked, so keep them coming! I'm about to reach the point where I have to decide where to go – well, more specifically, who to kill. I'm not sure how closely I should adhere to the book, and my two main concerns are Prim and Finnick. So what do you think? Live or die? I can't promise you I'll follow your advice, as I'm guessing you will all answer: "Kill Gale, let Prim and Finnick live!" ROFL but I'd be interested in hearing what you have to say, anyway. I got really useful feedback/suggestions for the arena for the 76th Hunger Games a few months ago, so I hope you'll share your thoughts with me. _****_  
_**

**_This is pretty much the second part of the previous chapter._**

* * *

**Chapter 27: Together and alone**

I deal with the humiliation and mortification in the only way how: I run. I'm still surprisingly agile for someone who is 20 plus weeks pregnant, and I'm starting to know Thirteen pretty well, so once again I manage to lose anyone who might be following me. I find one of my favorite closets, and feel my pulse going down at last. I lie there in the darkness, in the fetal position. It's warm and dark and quiet, all I can hear is the distant humming from the ventilation system.

I'm mainly mortified because I know that Haymitch is right. I really suck at this. It's a miracle no one figured it out a long time ago – that I am terrible with cameras, I'm the world's worst actress. All that's made me survive in the public eye for this long, is Peeta's steadying presence, his way with words and his ability to move the crowd. He can always play an audience perfectly. Alone, they could never have built up an image of me as the Mockingjay, no matter how much they had tried. Without Peeta, I'm just a scowling, antisocial girl who doesn't know what to say or do unless I or one of my loved ones in mortal danger.

I don't know if my eyes are open or closed, but it doesn't matter, it's so dark. I can lose myself in here.

Strangely, the times I spend in closets are perhaps the only occasions when I feel some sort of connection between the baby and me. I reluctantly have to admit to myself that I no longer think of the baby as "it", it's become "the baby".

It's still not "our daughter," though, which is what Peeta calls her.

We are both in the darkness, my baby and I, curled up. I can feel her kicking. She usually does when I – we – are hiding like this. Perhaps it only seems like it because these moments, when I'm lying very still and have nothing else to think about, are when I have time to really think about it, how she's moving and living inside me. I tried not to in the beginning, but it's becoming increasingly hard to ignore her.

My hand finds my bump, stroking it tentatively. "We are both in so much trouble, little baby," I tell her in the darkness. "I'm so sorry I have to bring you into this world of war and destruction. I wish I could give you something better. Someone who's not me. I'm so sorry."

Dr Aurelius has suggested that I talk to the baby, even sing to her. He says it will help me bond. I haven't wanted to bond, so I haven't done it. I don't think me apologizing for having her in such a shitty world, for being such a broken excuse of a mother, was what he was thinking of, anyway.

But we lie there in the darkness, she and I, together and alone.

* * *

When I finally emerge, it's only because my stomach tells me it's lunch. I find my way to the dining hall before I'm spotted by any guards or anyone I know. I know I look terrible, with my hair in disarray and the make-up smeared and partly dissolved by tears.

"Katniss!" Peeta shouts, and before I really see where the voice is coming from, he's there, his arms around me, hugging me so hard it almost hurts. "Where have you been?" He looks pale and drawn, and I realize how worried he must have been. I just shrug, not really in the mood to explain. Dr Aurelius is there as well, which surprises me, as we're not usually on the same eating shift, so I rarely see him outside of our daily morning sessions. They must have called him in because of my disappearance. Even Plutarch is here.

"I must be really predictable if you all knew I'd be back for lunch," I say dryly, as I accept my portion of what looks like – surprise – some kind of stew. My portion is larger than what almost anyone else is getting, because I'm pregnant and still emaciated, and I'm ravenous.

I don't say a word to anyone during lunch, but I'm not surprised when I'm escorted back to Command promptly after the meal is over. I am, however, surprised by how many people are there, more than usual. _Coin and her people. Plutarch, Fulvia. A group from 12 that includes Haymitch and Gale, but also a few others that I can't explain, like Leevy and Greasy Sae. At the last minute, Finnick _and Beetee come _in, accompanied by Dalton, the cattle expert from 10. I suppose that Coin has assembled this strange assortment of people as witnesses to my failure. _

Surprisingly, it's Haymitch who welcomes everyone, not Coin. T_he first thing _he _does is to show the footage we've just shot. I seem to have reached some new low under Plutarch and Fulvia's guidance. Both my voice and body have a jerky, disjointed quality, like a puppet manipulated by unseen forces. _

_"All right," Haymitch says when it's over. "Would anyone like to agree that this is of use to us in winning the war?" No one does. "That saves time. So, let's all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or her dress went up in flames or she made a halfway decent shot with an arrow. Not where Peeta was making you like her. I want to hear one moment where **she **made you feel something real. _

_Quiet stretches out and I'm beginning to think it will never end, when Leevy speaks up. "When she volunteered to take Prim's place at the reaping. Because I'm sure she thougth she was going to die."_

_"Good. Excellent example," says Haymithc. He takes a purple marker and writes on a notepad. "Volunteered for sister at reaping." Haymitch looks around the table. "Somebody else."_

And then, suddenly, it's like the floodgates are opening. When I sang to Rue as she died. When I drugged Peeta so that I could go to the feast to get him his medicine. _When I took on Rue as an ally. _Our wedding. Haymitch talks of our toasting. My smoldering intensity at the Victor's Banquet after the 77th Hunger Games. The propo from when we went back to District 12. _And again and again when I held out those berries that meant different things to different people. Love for Peeta. Refusal to give in under impossible odds. Defiance of the Capitol's inhumanity. _

_Haymitch holds up the notepad. "So, the question is, what do all of these have in common?"_

_"They were Katniss's", says Gale quietly. "No one told her what to do or say."_

_"Unscripted, yes!" says Beetee. He reaches over and pats my hand. "So we should just leave you alone, right?"_

_People laugh. I even smile a little. _How I wish they would, but I know they won't, and that's why I'm here.

_"Well, that's all very nice but not very helpful," says Fulvia peevishly. "Unfortunately, her opportunities for being wonderful are rather limited here in Thirteen. So unless you're suggesting we toss her in the middle of combat –"_

_"That's e**xactly **what I'm suggesting," says Haymitch. "Put her out in the field and just keep the cameras rolling. _You've done it once before, when she was in Twelve. We just need more of the same."

"But she is pregnant," Peeta points out.

"Yes, but that makes it even better. It really brings her home to the audience, makes her more human," Haymitch says. _"Every time we coach her or give her lines, the best we can hope for is OK. It has to come from her. That's what people are responding to._" I have to give it to him, he _has a pretty tight case. If I perform well only in real-life circumstances, then into them I should go._

"I'm not comfortable with this," Peeta says. "It's far too dangerous, what if something happens? The Capitol will stop at nothing to get her if they find out where she is, and she's much more vulnerable now than she was before. She can't run as fast, should there be an emergency, and what if she gets injured? What if anything happens to the baby?"

I'm annoyed that Peeta portrays me as vulnerable and weak, that he's stressing that I'm pregnant. Perhaps because I don't really want to think about it myself, even though the steadily increasing size of my bump, and how it's restricting my movements, makes it hard to ignore. Still, he seems to conveniently overlook the fact that I managed to get away from everyone just a few hours ago, so I'm obviously not as hopelessly slow as he tries to make me seem. "I'll be alright," I hiss. "And if I should die, make sure you get footage of it, it would make an excellent propo."

"Katniss!" Peeta shouts, and we end up having a heated fight, right in front of everyone. We're not used to fighting, it's not really what we do, particularly not in front of other people. We both tend to avoid conflict instead of seeking it out. Now, however, Peeta's screaming things like "being used" and "needing to protect you" at me, and I yell right back at him, accusing him of being overprotective and demanding that he leave me alone.

I feel like the teenager I suppose I technically still am when I yell at him: "I'm going, and you can't stop me!"

I definitely don't feel like a teenager when he to my surprise presses me up against the wall a second later, his eyes revealing his fury. I'm unable to move, he's too strong for me, and his entire body is feels rock hard against me, unforgiving from anger. From the corner of my eye I see that others are getting up from their places around the table to help me, perhaps even defend me, but I give them a wave with my free hand – the other is held in an iron grip by Peeta – to signal to them that I'm okay. I know Peeta would never hurt me. I hold his gaze defiantly, spurring him on, challenging him. "Don't tell me what to do," I say, my voice low. I can see from the way he looks at me that my eyes are on fire.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but I'm startled when his mouth descends on mine in a controlling, crushing kiss. I gasp into his mouth, and despite my anger with him – or perhaps because of it – I feel myself responding to his kiss. My one free hand goes up to the back of his head, pressing him even closer to me, and I open my mouth to accept his tongue. Every part of his body suddenly feels so close, burning hot, it's as if I can feel every detail of his body through the layers of our clothing. He's half erect already, to my astonishment, and my hips reflexively buck against his in response. His hand leaves my wrist and goes up under my shirt, I feel it against the bare skin on the side of my abdomen, and I shudder in delight. Before it has the chance to go even further up, we are interrupted by a sharp cough from Coin, followed by Haymitch's distinct laughter.

Flushed, still angry, Peeta reluctantly relaxes his grip on me, but he doesn't let me go. "Please keep your public displays of affection outside of Control," Coin says, but Peeta doesn't look at her, he's still staring at me.

"I go with her," he snarls, looking me deeply in my eyes, and for a split second I wonder what on earth he, the baker who despises weapons, would ever do if the Capitol were to attack. Yet I know that he would do anything to defend me, and there's no one else I'd rather have by my side. Then he looks straight at Coin, and his blue eyes, usually so warm, are now cold and hard. "And if anything happens to her or the baby, I swear I'll kill you with my own hands," he continues. I hear gasps, although I'm not sure from whom – he's openly threatening to kill the president of District 13.

I have never loved him more.

Trying to calm my own racing heart while getting my ruffled clothes back in order, I take a deep breath. I'm very aware of that fact that my hair is a mess and that my skin is flushed, my lips swollen and my pupils dilated. I briefly meet Gale's eyes, and I'm surprised to see that he's blushing, quickly looking down.

"Let's do this," I say. "Tomorrow." I start to leave, clearly indicating that I think this meeting is over as far as I'm concerned. Peeta is already standing by the door, waiting for me. He grins an almost feral grin to me as he opens the door.

Gale snorts, and Haymitch guffaws: "Well, I know someone who's going to have make-up sex and keep all of Thirteen entertained again!"

"Seriously, Haymitch," I hear Gale say, and I wonder what they mean by make-up sex, really. I don't see how anyone would ever want to combine make-up with sex. I have been exposed to enough make-up with my two prep teams to last me a lifetime, and I wish I'd never have to look at a lip stick ever again.

Haymitch is right, however, about my plans to have sex with Peeta, even though it's not on our schedule, so in a way that's quite an act of rebellion in itself. As soon as we're inside our room, I start tearing my clothes off, and so does he.

"What did he mean by make-up sex?" I gasp, as he catches my hips with his hands and grinds my center against his already erect cock. When Peeta just starts laughing, I scowl. "What? It's a valid question," I add, while trying to get him out of his t-shirt.

"You are so pure, Katniss."

"Really? You think so?" I snicker at him, as my hands close around his cock, pumping him. How I wish I could take him in my mouth right now, but I don't think it's a good idea in my current condition. He moans, and I can feel him growing even harder under my touch, and I draw the drop of pre-cum over the head.

"I really have no idea, Katniss," he groans into my ear, and my tongue flicks out to touch one of his nipples, making it hard for him to continue, "how someone so pure can do such wicked things to my body." He removes my hands from his cock, ignoring my pouting lip. "Make-up sex is when you have sex after having a fight. As a way to make up, and get the anger out of your system. It's supposed to be rough and gratifying and apparently it is amazing, so…" I don't know who gave him this information, and I don't care. His hand slips between my legs, and he grins when he finds me dripping wet. "Yesss…" he hisses. "Amazing."

"Rough, huh?" I whisper, barely finding my breath as I slowly back towards the bed, his hand never leaving my clit, and I moan loudly into his mouth as I lie down on the bed. It's narrow and uncomfortable, like everything in District 13 apparently, but I don't care.

"It will be whatever we want it to be," he whispers back.

"Well, right now I just want you to fuck me senseless," I tell him, and the feral grin is back as he moves to my neck, biting down on me. I shudder, and a distant part of my brain is delighted that my neck is apparently back on the list of places of my body that can be touched safely. I make an embarrassingly high-pitched sound, and he chuckles against my chest, where he has stopped on his way down. His lips and tongue find a nipple, his left hand the other, and my body arches against him. When it seems like he's going to move further down, I continue: "Right now. Please?"

He looks up at me, and I'm starting to see why this make-up sex is so appealing. We were in reality starting the foreplay in Command, and there is no real need or will on neither my part nor Peeta's to waste any time. He nods, and moves up again, his lips meeting mine in a crushing kiss. I lift my knees and embrace him with my thighs, and his cock is already prodding at my opening. He shifts his hips slightly, and pushes into me with one long, hard stroke. I arch my back to meet him, and I can't keep myself from screaming. I really don't care if the whole district hears us, like Haymitch said they would. I'm far beyond what anything thinks of me, and not just when it comes to sex.

Peeta is still high on adrenaline, that much is evident from the set of his jaw, his demanding kisses, so hard they nearly draw blood from my lips, and the way his hands are all over me, hard, demanding. I'm sure I'll have bruises in the morning, and more than a few love bites that my new prep team will have to cover up.

I don't care.

I'm not much better, my nails digging into the skin of his back, my hips meet his every thrust, and I'm being ridiculously loud to encourage him to fuck me harder. He is still being careful, though, somehow I know that if I wasn't pregnant, he'd be pounding into me without hesitation. It's not that he's hesitating now, really, but he's just not fucking me as hard as I know that he can. I'm frustrated, because right now I want all of it, all of **him**, but at the same time I'm grateful that this is my Peeta, gentle and caring even now.

This won't last long, and we both know it. I don't think he's ever made me scream his name this loud before, and the moans he's making as he comes just a few seconds after me aren't exactly discreet, either. As he sinks down beside me, panting heavily, I chuckle in between my own heavy, gasping breaths. "I guess they are right," I pant.

"What?" he groans into my ear, it sounds like he's only barely conscious.

"About make-up sex. We have to fight more often."

He laughs against my neck. "What was that?"

"What do you mean?" I turn to look at him.

"Rhe moaning and the screaming. Not that I didn't enjoy it," he grins, "but I'm sure most of District 13 did, too. What are you doing?"

I shrug. The truth is I'm not really sure myself. I'm usually an intensely private person, but if I am honest with myself, I was being extra loud on purpose, and Peeta obviously must have picked up on that as well. "I guess it's my own little personal rebellion," I finally answer. Then I smile: "It's not as if you were being Mr Quiet there yourself, Mellark."

Peeta chuckles. He's caressing my belly, gently. I want him to remove his hand, but I can't bring myself to tell him, not with the look he has on his face. Of awe and wonder - and fear. He's suddenly serious. "I can't let anything happen to you two. I just can't." He looks up at me, and his eyes are filled with tears. "You two are all I have. I can't lose you." There is nothing I can say that will help him, so I don't say anything. Life has taught me that you can never make promises. I can't promise him I'll always be here, and he knows it. I just touch him, stroking his hair and his face while never breaking eye contact.

We both know that everything that you think you have can be taken from you in an instant.

"Peeta, can I ask you something?" I say after a long while of gentle caressing, of me trying to reach through to him with my hands and my touch. Trying to soothe the pain. I know I'm not the only one who's hurting, but after I got pregnant, and particularly after we came to Thirteen, it's hard for me to focus on anyone but myself. I feel guilty for it, as Peeta always has my best interest in mind, he's always thinking of me first. And I... My pregnancy is making me so self-centered, it's like all my attention is being directed inwards, to what's happening inside me and to me. And with the propaganda war that Coin has planned for us… I feel like I'm on a high-speed train, and all I can do is hang on, there is no way of getting off alive.

"Anything." He whispers in my hair.

"Are you angry with me for wanting to take back my maiden name? I didn't realize I hadn't discussed it with you before I made the demand to Coin before it was too late. I should've told you first. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "No, it's… It was just unexpected, that's all. I didn't even know you felt that way, but I guess I should've understood. It was just another thing that wasn't your decision – taking my name, I mean. If you find later that you want to be Mrs Mellark, then you can always change it back. And if not, the main thing to me is that you're still my Mrs." He kisses me lightly on the lips, but there's something in his eyes… A hint of insecurity that he's trying to hide.

"Don't worry," I whisper in his ear. "I was planning to keep that bit unchanged."

I hear an almost imperceptible sigh of what can only be relief, and I realize I haven't given him much reason to think that I love him lately. I've been so preoccupied with my own fears to fully consider what he's going through – supporting me. Losing his family. Trying to start a new life in Thirteen, when all we can think of is Twelve burning. Running his fingers along the line of my jaw, he asks: "So what do we call the baby, then? Baby Everdeen-Mellark? Baby Mellark-Everdeen?"

I blush. "I'm not sure I'm ready to think about that quite yet."

His eyelids are still heavy from our recent love-making, his skin flushed, but he looks sad despite his obvious post-coital state. "I worry about you, Katniss," he confesses, his eyes never leaving mine. "I worry, every hour of every day… That it's going to be too much for you. That you have reached the limit of what you can take. I can see what the pregnancy is doing to you, mentally, I mean, and I'm… so sorry." He's started crying now, heavy, heart-breaking sobs, and for once I'm the one who's comforting him. I hold him tight, whispering loving words in his ear, so low he probably can't hear the individual words, but he will still know exactly what I mean, how I feel. He clings to me, his tears feel warm, then cold against the skin of my chest.

When at last he calms down, still breathing heavily, I whisper to him: "It's not your fault. I don't blame you. Never."

"You should've killed me when you had the chance in the arena, Katniss." His voice sounds so hollow.

I gasp at his words, and for a split second I think of how my world would've been if I had, and I feel cold. "Don't ever say that," I tell him, forcing him to look at me. "Don't **ever** say that. Where would that have left me? I would've been a female Finnick. Except I wouldn't be able to deal with it the way he does. I'd end up either dead - or addicted to liquor or morphling or both to numb the pain. There would have been no joy left in my life, Peeta. None." I kiss him. "You're my dandelion, can't you see? You're the only reason I have the strength to get out of bed every morning."

Now he's the one who's drying my tears away. "But what happens when the baby is born?"

I can't say to him what I've thought in my very darkest moments: That hopefully it will never happen, because I'll be dead by then. Instead I give him the other and equally honest answer I have to that question: "I don't know."

"You've been a mother to Prim for so many years," Peeta says, his voice soft. "I know you don't believe it yourself, but I know you can do it. I'm not saying it will be easy – for either of us. There are so many ghosts, so many nightmares. This could very well be the hardest thing we'll ever do, harder than anything the Hunger Games or the Capitol could ever throw at us. But we'll make it. We always do. Because there's no other option."

And I think, he's right. There is no other option.

And finally, I dare to say it, the thing that scares me the most: "I'm afraid I'll be like her." There is no need to specify who I mean. "She couldn't deal with it, with the pain, when my father died. She was broken, and Prim and I had to suffer because of her failure as a mother. We nearly died. I never fully trusted her again. What if the same thing happens to me? What if I'm so messed up I just can't give her what she needs? What if she grows up resenting me, even hating me? What if I destroy her?"

He kisses my hair. "We have both been let down by our mothers, Katniss," he says, his voice so low I can barely hear him. "But we don't have to make the mistakes that they did. We don't own their mistakes, they do. We're not them. We can do better. We have to try to do better."

We lie together in silence, so close, skin to skin, for a long time.

Finally, Peeta looks over at the clock on the bedstand, then he checks the schedule on his arm. "Dinner is in five minutes."

I feel my stomach growling. I don't really want to get out of bed, but if we don't show, there won't be any food until next morning. "Let's go." I get up, feeling his semen running down my thighs. I consider not washing it off, just to spite them all, to make sure they can smell him on me. But I end up taking a quick shower, washing off all the layers of make-up at the same time. We dress, but I don't bother braiding or even brushing my hair. "Are you sure you want to go like this?" Peeta murmurs, and I see my reflection and grin as I meet his eyes in the mirror. My hair is messy and tangled, my eyes heavy-lidded, my lips swollen, and there is a row of what can only be love bites along one side of my neck. Peeta has a slightly dazed look and his skin is flushed, but he's still less obviously post-coital than I am.

"Let them see," I say, and he shrugs. And I wonder, when did we become like this?

I'm not even sure who I'm rebelling against at the moment.

Our recent activities clearly haven't been gone unnoticed in District 13. There is whistling as we go to our places by the table.

"I love the hair," Johanna says when I sit down next to her. I don't answer her. I'm ravenous, again. "Very subtle."

When Haymitch comes to sit down next to me, I don't acknowledge him at all until he says: "You're going to Eight tomorrow morning. _There was heavy bombing earlier_ _this_ afternoon, _but the raid seems to have run its course._"

I look up at him, but I don't answer.

"I suggest you do something about your hair first," he snickers, and I roll my eyes.


	28. Chapter 28: Return of the Mockingjay

**Chapter 28: Return of the Mockingjay**

**_This chapter will follow the end of chapter six and chapter seven of Mockingjay quite closely. As a result, there are quite a few paragraphs in italics, which are direct quotes from the book._**

**_And - The Other Mockingjay is now almost at 500 reviews! That is so amazing. Thank you so much, everyone for liking, favoriting, PMing and reviewing! It's so encouraging and it really does make me update and write faster, so keep them coming! _**

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The next morning, I'm pleasantly surprised when my new prep team only takes me slightly beyond their version of beauty base zero. Apparently, someone said that my thick layer of make-up yesterday made me look like I was 35 instead of 19, and suggested that they go for a more natural look for the upcoming propo. They must've talked about this in Command after I left to… Well, fuck Peeta… But I wish I knew who said it, because I almost feel like thanking whoever it was.

I feel infinitely better now. Whether it's because I know I'll get away from Thirteen for a little while, or if it's because I'm actually allowed to be **me**, I can't say. I am to be protected by a squad of bodyguards, and Haymitch and Plutarch will be airborne, to have an overview of the situation while staying in constant contact with me and the rest of the team on the ground. There are no more ill-fitting uniforms for either of us, and we're not dressed in District Twelve clothes, either. Peeta, Gale and I all have uniforms that have clearly been made with us in mind, and even I have to admit that we look pretty striking. Impressive, even.

_A helmet of some interwoven metal that fits close to my head. The material's supple, like fabric, and can be drawn back like a hood in case I don't want it up full-time. A vest to reinforce protection over my vital organs, _clearly made with my expanding belly in mind. _A small white earpiece that attaches to my collar by a wire. Beetee secures a mask to my belt that I don't have to wear unless there's a gas attack. "If you see anyone dropping for reasons you can't explain, put it on immediately," he says. _I pick up my new bow and arrows, and I feel complete.

Plutarch _takes a vial from his vest, shakes a few deep violet pills into his hand, and holds them out to us. "We named them **nightlock **in your honor, Katniss. The rebels can't afford for any of us to be captured now. But I promise, it will be completely painless." _

But when I, the last in line, try to take a capsule, he puts the remaining capsules back into the vial, and puts it back into his vest. "I'm sorry, Katniss," he says. "Doctor's orders."

I frown. «What do you mean?»

Plutarch seems uneasy. «Dr Aurelius had a… somewhat heated discussion with Coin about this last night. He seems to think that you are… well… suicidal."

"What?" I say, anger rising. Damn doctor.

"The term he used was "suicidal ideation", not that you are actually suicidal," Haymitch interjects.

"He was very adamant that you are not to have access to the capsules," Plutarch says. The others have put their capsules into a tiny pocket on the front of their uniform, from which it can be ripped off with their teeth even if their hands are tied.

I feel hurt and left out.

"So if we are captured, what happens to me? Do you just allow the Capitol to take me?" I ask.

"Then the soldiers accompanying you have been ordered to kill you before they take their own capsules," Plutarch says, as if he's talking about the weather. He sends Peeta a warning look, and Peeta doesn't say anything, but he doesn't look very happy about the situation. I suppose hearing someone talk about shooting your pregnant wife does that to you.

In the hovercraft on our way to District Eight, I realize I know next to nothing about the actual state of the war, or what I'll be facing in Eight. _Plutarch tries to lay it out in simple terms for me. Every district is currently at war with the Capitol except 2, w_hich comes as a surprise to me. I knew that many of the districts were involved, but I hadn't thought that they would **all** be at war. District Two has always had a special relationship to the Capitol _despite its participation in the Hunger Games. They get more food and better living conditions. After the Dark Days and the supposed destruction of 13, District 2 became the Capitol's new center of defense, although it's publicly presented as the home of the nation's stone quarries, in the same way that 13 was known for graphite mining. District 2 not only manufactures weaponry, it trains and even supplies Peacekeepers. _The rebels' goal is to _take over the districts one by one, ending with District 2, thus cutting off the Capitol's supply chain. _

_"Then, once it's weakened, we invade the Capitol itself," says Plutarch. "That will be a whole other type of challenge. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."_

_"If we win, who would be in charge of the government?" Gale asks._

_"Everyone," Plutarch tells him. "We're going to form a republic where the people of each district and the Capitol can elect their own representatives to be their voice in a centralized government. Don't look suspicious; it's worked before."_

_"In books," Haymitch mutters._

_"In history books," says Plutarch. "And if our ancestors could do it, then we can, too."_

_Frankly, our ancestors don't seem much to brag about_, but I keep that thought to myself. That republic thing obviously didn't work out very well. I think about _the state they left us in, with the wars and the broken planet. Clearly, they didn't care about what would happen to the people who came after them. But this republic idea sounds like an improvement over our current government. A_lthough I guess it doesn't take much to be classified as an improvement.

We're a surprisingly large group of people, just for making a short propo. It's me, Peeta and Gale, of course. Plutarch and Haymitch will stay in the hovercraft. There are three bodyguards to protect me, Boggs who I already know, and two others I've never seen before, both men. _The TV crew consists of a pair of burly Capitol cameramen with heavy mobile cameras encasing their bodies like insect shells, a woman director named Cressida who has a shaved head tattooed with green vines, and her assistant, Messalla, a slim young man with several sets of earrings. On careful observation, I see his tongue has been pierced, too, and he wears a stud with a silver ball the size of a marble. _

I remember the last time I was in District Eight – the only time I've been there, in fact. They produce textiles – or they used to, anyway. With the war, I guess production must have come to a halt. When Peeta and I were on the victory tour, we visited a huge factory, where they made luxury fabrics. One of the first things I see when we leave the hovercraft, is the ruins of that very factory, still smoking. It's resembling District Twelve all too much, and the smell of ashes and smoke and death makes me feel sick. I'm not really sure to which extent the shot has been planned in advance, as the whole point is making me react and feel without a script, but it seems as if the first thing we do has, at least, been planned. We make our way to what Boggs tells me is the hospital of District Eight. Or what passes for it, anyway, it's really just a _large warehouse with a sloppily painted H above the doorway. It's a scene from my old kitchen, where my mother treated the dying, multiplied by ten, by fifty, by a hundred. I had expected bombed-out buildings, and instead find myself confronted with broken human bodies._

I'm infinitely better at dealing with broken buildings than with broken people. _I turn to Boggs. "This won't work," I say. "I won't be good here."_

_He must see the panic in my eyes, because he stops a moment and places his hands on my shoulders. "You will. Just let them see you. That will do more for them than any doctor in the world could."_

They must have been bringing in the wounded ever since the bombing yesterday, and the so-called hospital is so horrific it might very well have been a scene from one of my worst nightmares. There is a distinct smell of death here already. Of burned human flesh. There are patients everywhere, most of them are lying on the floor. Only a few have actual mattresses or beds – but I don't think they are the lucky ones. I suspect that they are the most badly wounded, and that's the reason why they have those mattresses.

There's moaning and cries of pain. Children crying quietly, some not so quietly. Besides the smell of death, there is also a heavy stink of urine, sweat and feces. I'm appalled by the hygienic standard – my mother would be livid if she were here. Their injuries will soon be the smallest problems these people have, epidemics will run through here like fire in no time unless we do something about it - quickly.

Peeta has already grasped the situation, of course. He knows exactly what to do as usual. He walks over to the first person he sees, a mother with a young child on her lap, perhaps three or four years old. They are both burned, although probably not as badly as many of the others, and they are sitting directly in the cold draught from the door, perhaps waiting to be assigned a spot on the floor. They are both shivering from the cold. Peeta gives her a warm wool blanket, from the provisions we brought with us from District 13. He puts it around the mother's shoulders and covers the child as well, tucking in the little girl's feet. The mother starts crying when she sees his face and realizes who Peeta is, and it seems like he's forgotten all about the cameras already. I don't hear what he says to her, I just hear the soothing, comforting tone of his voice, see the way his blue eyes never leave her brown ones. How he pats the child on the head, even coaxing a smile from her. I'm still standing in the doorway, unsure of what to do next. Then it seems like she's asking Peeta something, and he nods and smiles, and looks up at me. She follows his gaze, and I smile uncertainly at her when she gasps. "Katniss!" She says, "Katniss Everdeen!" Without thinking, I walk over to them. How can I not? As I sit down next to Peeta, his presence comforting me in this terrible place, the woman smiles at me through her tears, and I realize that I'm crying as well.

"Congratulations," she says to me, her voice hoarse from the smoke.

For a split second I don't understand what she's talking about, but then I see that she's looking at my belly. "Thank you" seems to be the only acceptable response.

"We didn't know if it was real," she says, taking my hand. I might have tried to avoid this skin to skin contact with a stranger before, but now – I squeeze her bloody hand. I wonder who's comforting whom.

"It's real," I assure her. "It's a girl."

"Oh, that's lovely. Hear that, Cennia?» She says to the child on her lap. "A beautiful little girl, like you." I look at her daughter, at the burns on her arms and chest, and I think that we need to get her away from here, and fast. This is no place for a child.

As we get up, we are approached by a woman who I noticed was directing incoming patients earlier. _Her dark brown eyes are puffy with fatigue and she smells of metal and sweat. A bandage around her throat needed changing about three days ago. _

_"This is Commander Paylor of Eight," says Boggs. "Commander, Katniss Everdeen."_

_She looks young to be a commander. Early thirties. But there's an authoritative tone to her voice that makes you feel her appointment wasn't arbitrary. _

_"Yeah, I know who she is," says Paylor. _

_"You think this is a good idea?" says Gale, frowning at the hospital. "Assembling your wounded like this?"_

_«I think it's slightly better than leaving them to die,» says Paylor._

_"That's not what I meant," Gale tells her._

_"Well, currently that's my other option. But if you come up with a third and get Coin to back it, I'm all ears."_ She motions for us to follow her._ "Come on in, Mockingjay. And by all means, bring your friends."_

Along one wall, there's a pile of bodies, most of them partly covered by white cloths concealing their faces. Paylor tells us that they have a mass grave a few blocks away, but they can't spare the manpower to move the bodies there at the moment. I suppose they have to prioritize the living – but I also know that if they don't do something about the dead very soon, the living will suffer as well, and end up adding to their pile of bodies in staggering numbers.

_My fingers wrap around _Peeta's _wrist. "Do not leave my side," I say under my breath._

_"I'm right here," he answers quietly._

The mother and the child were just the beginning. Faces seem to be floating in front of my eyes. The stench, the flies, the moans.

It's overwhelming my senses.

But among the unimaginable horror, there are also the gasps. The whispers of my name. The hands that reach out to touch me – and to my surprise, I don't flinch. Instead, I find myself returning their touch. I find it hard to speak at first, but Peeta – being Peeta – sits down on the bedsides of the gravely wounded, and brings me with him. He gets me started, he always knows which questions to ask, what to say to comfort them.

"Katniss!" A young woman with an injured leg says, reaching out for me. _Blood has seeped through the heavy bandages, which are _dirty and desperately need to be changed. _Her face reflects her pain, but something else, too, something that seems completely incongruous with her situation. "Is it really you?"_

_«Yeah, it's me,» I get out. _

_Joy. That's the expression on her face. At the sound of my voice, it brightens, erases the suffering momentarily. _"I'm so glad you managed to escape from District 12. We saw it on TV. I can't believe it's all gone."

"Neither can I," I whisper to her, and to my surprise I find that she's the one who's comforting me, not the other way around. She's badly wounded, and her district is in ruins, too, although it's not completely obliterated, like mine. But here, in a cramped, dirty improvised hospital deep in District Eight, I find that the Mockingjay is being comforted by a wounded stranger.

And my presence does help, Boggs was right about that. I see how her pain recedes into the background, even if just for a little while. How she reaches out to me, and how I – to my surprise – respond. "You promise me to get better," I tell her, knowing full well the predicament they are all in.

We walk along the seemingly endless rows of injured people. _Hungry fingers devour me, wanting to feel my flesh. As a stricken man clutches my face between his hands, I send a silent thank- you to _whoever it was that suggested _I wash off the make-up. How ridiculous, how perverse I would feel presenting that painted Capitol mask to these people. The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That's how they recognize me, why I belong to them. _

It turns out Peeta has fans, too, especially among the women, both young and old. And he's so great with them, not flirting even with the ones who obviously have a crush on him, he's just being who he is - a genuinely good and kind person. It's so easy, yet so difficult. His hand never leaves mine, he's my anchor, keeping me grounded. The awe in the eyes of the people we talk to surprises me. They behave as if I'm some kind of goddess, as if they can't believe I'm really here, that I'm actually **real**. Perhaps that's why so many of them touch me. They even touch my belly, and I find myself discussing babies with many of the women. I get some bits of advice on diapers and feeding, even from mothers who clearly have lost their own children, or are about to. They want to know how far along I am, how I'm feeling. They seem delighted when I tell them it's a girl. I realize that this, talking about the baby, provides them with a brief escape from the situation they're in. They seem to light up, despite their own injuries and their own grief.

_I begin to fully understand the lengths to which people have gone to protect me. What I mean to the rebels. My ongoing struggle against the Capitol, which has so often felt like a solitary journey, has not been undertaken alone. I have had thousands upon thousands of people from the districts at my side. I was their Mockingjay long before I accepted the role._

I find that I stand taller, my back is straighter. I don't have to think anymore, I just react, I just feel. The sheer number of people is staggering, and I can't talk to them all, although I wish that I could. I wish I could give them all some kind of solace, a brief escape.

_A new sensation being to germinate inside me. But it takes until I am standing on a table, waving my final goodbyes to the hoarse chanting of my name, to define it. Power. I have a kind of power I never knew I possessed. Snow knew it, as soon as I held out those berries. _Haymitch knew when I was rescued from District 12._ Coin knows now._

W_hen we're outside again, I lean against the warehouse, catching my breath, accepting the canteen of water from Boggs. "You did great," he says._

I take a deep, shuddering breath. "Thanks," I say, passing the bottle to Peeta after gulping down a few mouthfuls of water, who passes it on to Gale afterwards.

"I'm sure they got some great footage of you in there," Gale says, and Cressida nods, looking briefly up from her own hand-held camera where she's reviewing the footage, probably already thinking about how she's going to edit it all together. The sheer enormity of the suffering in District Eight is hard to take in, and to think that Boggs said it's like this in every district… They are all under attack, more or less. The only exceptions are Two, which is still siding with the Capitol – and Twelve, which just isn't there anymore.

"Are you okay?" Peeta asks me. I nod. I'm not okay, not really, but I'm as okay as I can be, considering the circumstances. For the first time in ages, I feel as if I've actually done something **useful**. Something that matters to someone. Even if it's only holding hands with wounded strangers and chatting about my pregnancy, I've given them something – hope. A brief relief from their pain and fear. Perhaps even… happiness, for just a few seconds. Something other than blood and destruction to think about as they fall asleep tonight.

Boggs is fickling with his earpiece, he looks stern as he concentrates on whatever Haymitch is telling him. _"We're to get to the airstrip. Immediately," Boggs says. "Incoming bombers. Let's move!»_

We start running towards the airstrip, but within seconds we see the incoming _low-flying, V-shaped formation of __Capitol _hovercrafts above us, cutting us off from the airstrip.

Then the bombs begin to fall. I throw myself on the ground, feeling the shock wave of the first bomb rip over me. I think I managed to instinctively shield my bump as much as possible, but even as I know we have to get up and get moving again as soon as possible, irrationally what I really want to just stay put and feel for movement in there, for any tiny flutter telling me she's okay.

When did I start caring? I wanted her dead.

_I try to get up, but Boggs pushes me back down, shielding my body with his own. The ground ripples under me as bomb after bomb drops from the planes and detonates. _There is no escape. I hear Haymitch's voice in my ear, telling us they can't land during the bombing raid. "_It's imperative you're not spotted," _he says. "Intelligence thinks the Capitol don't know you're here, _that this raid was already scheduled." _

We're going to try to get away from the street, in the slight break between two incoming raids, but as I try to get up, I feel a searing pain at the back of my right knee. I've been hit by something, it must have been shrapnel or something from one of the bombs, but I was too high on adrenaline, too preoccupied with thinking about how throwing myself at the ground might have hurt the baby, to notice. Peeta sees the blood on the leg of my uniform, and his eyes darken. I try again to get up, and this time I manage with the help of his hand. "Can you walk?" He asks me, and I'm honestly not sure until I've tried and find that I can actually run, albeit not as fast as before. Adrenaline keeps me going now, there is no time to worry about what I suspect is a minor injury. There is no time to inspect it anyway, better to just ignore it for now. Boggs is in the lead, but no one else passes me – instead, they stay behind and around me, shielding me. Peeta is still holding my hand, pulling me along.

We run towards a bunker, but before we get there, the second wave of attack comes in. This time, it's Peeta who's throwing himself on top of me, shielding me with his body. We lie there, panting, terrified, and I feel how he's struggling to keep his bodyweight off me as much as he can. I desperately want to see him, to look into his blue eyes, but he's behind my back. All I can do is feel his hot breath against my neck, and silently pray that no shrapnel will tear into his body, take him from me. After the second wave has passed, I'm somewhat surprised we're still alive. Why are we alive?

"_I don't think they've seen me_," I pant. "_I mean, they're not following us."_

Gale is lying close to us. _"No, they've targeted something else," he answers. _

_"I know, but there's nothing back there but-" The realization hits us at the same time._

_"The hospital." Instantly, Gale's up and shouting to the others. "They're targeting the hospital!"_

_"Not your problem," says Plutarch firmly _in our ear_. "Get to the bunker." _

_"But there's nothing there but the wounded!" I say. _

_"Katniss." I hear the warning note in Haymitch's voice and know what's coming. _He does, after all, know me all too well. _"Don't you even think about -!" I yank the earpiece free and let it hang from its wire. With that distraction gone, I hear another sound. Machine-gun fire coming from the roof of the dirt brown warehouse across the alley. Someone is returning fire. _

I squirm out from underneath Peeta, who hasn't really grasped what is going on yet, and _make a dash for an access ladder and begin to scale it. Climbing. One of the things I do best. _I may be heavier and clumsier than usual, but I'm powered by anger and adrenaline.

"_Don't stop!" I hear Gale say behind me. Then there's the sound of his boot on someone's face. If it belongs to Boggs, Gale's going to pay for it dearly later on. _I hear Peeta shouting something behind me, I can't really hear what he's saying, but it sounds like he's yelling at Gale. I don't have time to worry about it. _I stop long enough to pull Gale up beside me, _and then we run over to the rebels manning the machine-guns on the rooftop.

To my surprise, or perhaps I shouldn't be, one of them is Paylor. _"Boggs knows you're up here?" _

_I try to be evasive without flat-out lying. "He knows where we are, all right." _

_Paylor laughs. "I bet he does. You been trained in these?» she slaps the stock of her gun._

_"I have. In Thirteen," says Gale. «But I'd rather use my own weapons.» _

We've both got our bows ready. Paylor quickly explains that they expect at least three more waves of attack, and that they have to drop their sight shields before they release the bombs. That's our chance to get them. Gale and I draw our arrows and position ourselves to shoot from one knee to stay low. Behind me, I hear that Peeta and Boggs have come up on the roof as well, the latter I identify because the swearing. I know it's too late now, anyway, there is an imminent incoming attack, and we can't go anywhere else right now. I glance over my shoulder and see that the insects - my camera team - are there as well.

And suddenly they appear, low in the sky – a V-shaped formation of hovercrafts. I yell "_Geese!"_ at Gale, and that's all it takes – we're right back in the woods. We've shot at geese so many times, during autumn and spring migration, and we have come up with a system of how to make sure we don't target the same geese, but take out as many as possible. It's easily applicable to hovercrafts as well. There is no time to think, I just let the first arrow fly. Gale just misses, and swears as he does, but my arrow catches t_he inside wing of one, causing it to burst into flames. _It _swerves out of formation, but it still releases its bombs. It doesn't disappear, though. Neither does the one other I assume was hit by gunfire. The damage must prevent the sight shield from reactivating. _

The next wave is already incoming. Both Gale and I used fire arrows for the first round of attack, but our eyes meet for a split second, saying everything that needs to be said, and both of us reach for our explosive arrows for the next round. _As the planes sweep silently in, I make another decision. "I'm standing!" I shout to Gale, and rise to my feet. This is the position I get the best accuracy from._ This leaves me more vulnerable, but there's not time to think about it. In the two waves that follow shortly after each other, Gale and I take down two hovercrafts each. The gunfire takes a fifth. They crash in balls of fire.

_"All right, that's it," Paylor says._

_Flames and heavy black smoke from the wreckage obscure our view. "Did they hit the hospital?" _

_"Must have," she says grimly. _

_I scramble down the ladder, _and I half expect Boggs to yell at me or even forcibly pull me along to the bunker, but he doesn't. Peeta is very pale, but follows me as I start running towards the hospital.

I hear Cressida yelling to Plutarch behind me. "_I don't care, Plutarch! Just give me five more minutes!" _

As we pass around the corner, my worst fears turn out to be true. The hospital, or what is left of it, is on fire. The building has collapsed, probably from direct impact from the firebombs. There are screaming people outside the remains of the building, attempting a rescue, but there is no one left to rescue. No one could ever survive a wall of fire like this. It's like the Seam all over again, only these people had even less of a chance to escape – they were wounded, most of them couldn't even walk.

_Gale's at my shoulder. The fact that he does nothing only confirms my suspicions. Miners don't abandon an accident until it's hopeless. "Come on, Katniss_,"he says. "_Haymitch says they can get a hovercraft in for us now." But I can't seem to move._

_"Why would they do that? Why would they target people who were already dying?" I ask him._

_"Scare others off. Prevent the wounded from seeking help," says Gale. "Those people you met, they were expendable. To Snow, anyway. If the Capitol wins, what will it do with a bunch of damaged slaves?"_

As if distantly, I hear Cressida telling me that Snow has aired the bombing live. That Snow broadcasted that _this was his way of sending a message to the rebels. _"W_hat about you? Would you like to tell the rebels anything?" she says. _

_I turn around slowly, my back against the burning hospital now. It's just me and the fire. __"Yes,"_ I find myself answer. "I want to tell the rebels that I'm _right here in District Eight, where the Capitol has just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women and children. There will be no survivors." The shock I've been feeling begins to give way to fury. "I want to tell the people that if you think for one second that the Capitol will __treat us fairly if there's a ceasefire, you're deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do." My hands go out automatically, as if to indicate the whole horror around me. "**This** is what they do! And we must fight back!"_

_I'm moving in towards the camera now, carried forward by my rage. "President Snow says he's sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that?" One of the cameras follows as I point to the planes burning on the roof of the warehouse across from us, _the planes Gale and I just took down with our arrows. _The Capitol seal on a wing glows clearly through the flames. "Fire is catching!" I am shouting now, determined that he will not miss a word. "And if we burn, you burn with us!"_

_My last words hang in the air. I feel suspended in time. Held aloft in a cloud of heat that generates not from my surroundings, but from my own being._

_"Cut!" Cressida's voice snaps me back to reality, extinguishes me. She gives me a nod of approval. "That's a wrap."_

* * *

The hurried trip back to the hovercraft is all in a haze. I think Peeta and Gale part support me, part carry me. I see worry in Haymitch's face when they put me down on the floor of the hovercraft, and he leans over me. A doctor is working on my leg, and I distantly feel that the fabric of my uniform is wet and sticky from blood from my knee and down. I wonder why I didn't notice that before.

A nurse tries to find a vein in my hand, and I want to push her away, to tell her that I've had far too much of doctors and nurses and IVs I never asked for invading my body, but I don't have the strength. The last thing that goes through my mind before everything goes black around me, is that I must feel for a flutter, a kick, any kind of sign of life, in my belly.

But there is nothing.

* * *

**_This chapter has followed Mockingjay quite closely, which (unfortunately) made it necessary to include quite a few direct quotes from the book. I'm sorry about that, I hope you didn't feel like there were far too many. I've shortened the chapter and a half in question quite a lot, and added some new aspects, but it's still a lot of repetition. There will be less direct repetition of Mockingjay in the following chapters, but the attack on District Eight was crucial to the story – and I couldn't really change it very much. The only addition is mainly that Peeta is there along with Gale. How could I ever even dream of changing Katniss' speech, for instance, it's perfect already! :) _**


	29. Chapter 29: The curse of victors

**_We're now officially past 500 reviews! Wow, that's so incredible! Thank you so much for your support, everyone! And an extra big thank you to rubandepluie f_****_or your review – I can't reply because you weren't logged in, but you made me so happy. _**

**_Mockingjay quotes are still in italics._**

* * *

**Chapter 29: The curse of victors**

I wake up in a hospital bed. It's not the first time I've woken up in a hospital, and before I even open my eyes I recognize the telltale scent and know where I am. When I do open my eyes, I blink against the intense, bright light. I try unsuccessfully to get up, moaning when I feel the pain shooting through my leg.

"Lie still, Katniss," a voice says, and I blink to bring the person's face into focus. It's my mother. She looks pale and worried. Behind her, Peeta is sleeping in a chair. His head is rolled to the side in the uncomfortable hospital chair, and I know he's going to be in pain when he wakes up. He's still sooty and dirty, blood smudged over one cheek, and I wonder if it's from me, or if he was injured as well.

_"How do you feel?" _she asks, and I pause to consider her question. How do I feel?

I don't know. There is something I have to remember… Something important. But my head is pounding, and I just can't focus. "What… how…" I start to say, still not sure what my question is.

"The baby is okay," my mother says, already knowing the answer to the question I couldn't even phrase myself. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Inhale – exhale. Inhale – exhale. Just… Breathe, Katniss. And as I lie there, focusing on breathing and nothing else, there it is – the flutter. The flutter I tried to feel in Eight.

When I open my eyes again, I meet my mother's and find that they are filled with… relief?

I don't understand.

"Do you want to see?"

I don't know what to answer, I don't really know what she's asking me.

My mother gets up from where she was sitting on my bedside, and rolls some kind of equipment up to me. "This is an ultrasound machine," she tells me. I blink again, trying to clear my head. I think they had machines like that in the Capitol, too. I don't like anything that comes from the Capitol. The doctor I had to go to in Twelve for pregnancy check-ups had one, too, but I always refused to look at it. Whenever he used it, I would close my eyes.

"It's not dangerous, Katniss. They've been teaching me to use it here in Thirteen." There is pride in her voice, I realize. Pride that they trust her to learn this, that they regard her knowledge of healing so highly that they want to teach her to use their high-tech equipment. I can tell her time training in the hospital here has been put to good use.

She lifts up my hospital shirt to expose my belly, and I feel naked, vulnerable, even though I'm still wearing underwear. She's never seen me like this. She hasn't really seen my body since I was perhaps ten or eleven, before puberty, before my dad died. Happy times. When Prim and I would bathe together every Saturday in front of the oven in the kitchen. It seems like a lifetime ago. I'm an adult now, an adult with a pregnant belly I feel very uncomfortable with. Peeta is the only one who has seen it, and even that was hard. "The probe needs direct contact with your skin," she explains to me, and she puts some kind of jelly on the probe. I view it with suspicion still, but I trust her not to do anything that will hurt me. The jelly is cold when it touches my skin, and I flinch. "Sorry," she murmurs. I look at the probe, how she moves it over my bump as if searching. "There we go," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice, my eyes still fixed on the probe as if I expect it to explode or turn into a weapon any minute.

I don't understand what she means. The probe is digging into my skin, not hard enough to hurt me, but enough to make a dent into my rounded belly. Then I see that she's not looking at the probe, but at the screen, and I follow her gaze.

My eyes widen in shock. I see **her**. Inside my belly. It's like the photos Peeta showed me in the Capitol, long ago, only this time it's like a film, it's not just a photo. And she's much bigger now, more developed, she looks like a… real baby. Still very thin, her arms and legs are almost stick-like, but definitely a baby. I can see her moving, sucking on her thumb. Kicking with her legs. I can even see her beating heart. "See?" my mother says, and there's a happiness in her face that I haven't seen in a long time. "You haven't seen this before, have you?" I shake my head. I find it hard to look away from the screen, but glance quickly over at the still sleeping Peeta. "He saw this earlier, when you were unconscious. An obstetrician checked you out when you came in. We were afraid that the baby had been injured by the shock waves or the hits you took to your abdomen when you fell, but everything seems okay. You lost quite a lot of blood, and you have a concussion, so you'll have to stay here for a few days, but everything's looking good." She pushes a few buttons on the machine, and the view on the screen changes – from somehow seeing through the baby, to seeing the actual surface of her skin. Her face, her features, her hands.

"I think she looks like Peeta, don't you?" my mother says with a smile. I'm too stunned to answer.

She wipes the gel away from my belly and pulls the hospital gown back down over my hips and thighs. "Thank you," I whisper.

"You need accept that this is coming, Katniss," she says finally. "You can't just keep pretending that nothing's happened. You're nearly 23 weeks pregnant, and that baby will be born before you know it. I know the circumstances are far from ideal – you are very young, you never really wanted to have a baby… And with everything going on with the Capitol, your being here in Thirteen, our home gone…" Her voice trails off. "Dr Aurelius is very worried about you. So am I." I had no idea they talked to each other at all. "I just wanted you to see. To perhaps make you understand."

I feel the tears burning in my eyes. "Real?" I whisper.

«Real,» she confirms.

I drift off to sleep.

* * *

After two days, I'm released from the hospital. They don't even give me a new tattoo with the day's schedule, I'm just sent straight to Control. I'm still limping, and I need to use a cane for a few more days. Escaping to a closet will be more difficult now, I realize.

"I think they've already started airing the propo from Eight," Peeta says. "I overheard some nurses talking about it."

"Have you seen it?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. "I do everything I can to stay away from propaganda, regardless of who's making it."

Peeta's a smart guy.

The first person I see when I walk through the door, is Boggs. His face is bruised and swollen, and he has some kind of supportive device on his nose which tells me his nose has been broken and very recently reset.

It was broken by Gale's boot. I swallow hard. I hope he's not in serious trouble now because of my rash decision to get on that roof.

But, to my surprise, Gale is standing next to him, a big smile on his face. It's not the smile of a person who's just been reprimanded – or worse – for disobeying direct orders and injuring his commanding officer. I have no idea why, but Boggs must have kept what happened to himself.

Cressida, Mesalla and the insects are there as well. _"There's our little star!"_ Mesalla beams.

I smile uncertainly, not sure where this is going. Dr Aurelius is here as well, which makes me even more anxious. What exactly is going on here?

_Coin calls the meeting to order. S_he actually looks pleased. I don't think I've seen her look like this before. I wonder if it's a good or a bad thing. _"Our Airtime Assault _Part Two _has officially launched. For any of you who missed yesterday's twenty-hundred broadcast of our _second _propo – or the seventeen reruns Beetee has managed to air since – we will begin by replaying it." _And I realize they must all have seen it, everyone but Peeta and me. They're doing this for us. I dry my sweating palms nervously on my gray trousers. I hate seeing myself on TV.

The propo is good, I have to give them that. It's actually even better than the first one. When we were in District 12, I was angry – and crippled by grief. In District Eight, the anger is replaced by burning fury – lit by the very recent murders of innocent, injured civilians. The flames of the hospital is an nice yet unintended special touch, considering I'm the girl on fire after all. I seem to be radiating through the screen when I say: "_Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!"_ I try to imagine how I would feel if I wasn't, well, me. What if I was a 19-year-old girl in District 11 or 7 or 3, who had seen this dark-haired, gray-eyed girl on TV for years? What if I was tired and hungry, sick of oppression yet too scared to rebel? And I think, this Mockingjay in the propo just might have been enough to win me over. She could make me want to actually rebel, instead of just suffering in silence. Unscripted, in mortal danger, taking down actual hovercrafts – I even impress myself.

I don't **feel** like the burning, furious Mockingjay with the rounded belly who shoots down hovercrafts and threatens Snow with revenge and fire, though. The woman on the screen is someone else. I'm just a tired 19-year-old girl who still has a slight headache and an injured leg, and what I really want is to be alone - or to curl up next to Peeta in our bed and never get up again.

Of course, that's not an option.

There are rounds of applause for Cressida, the camera team, for me and Peeta and Gale. Everyone seems ridiculously pleased with themselves. Only Peeta looks worried and – unusual for him – angry. _I_ also_ can't help noticing the strain on Fulvia's face. I think how hard this must be for her, watching Haymitch's idea succeed under Cressida's direction, when Fulvia's studio approach was such a flop._

_Coin seems to have reached the end of her tolerance for self-congratulation. "Yes, well deserved. The result is more than we had hoped for. But I do have to question the wide margin of risk that you were willing to operate within. I know the raid was unforeseen. However, given the circumstances, I think we should discuss the decision to send Katniss into actual combat."_

_The decision? To send me into combat? Then she doesn't know that I flagrantly disregarded orders, ripped out my earpiece and gave my bodyguards the slip? What else have they kept from her?_

_"It was a tough call," says Plutarch, furrowing his brow. "But the general consensus was that we weren't going to get anything worth using if we locked her in a bunker somewhere every time a gun went off."_

_"And you're okay with that?" Asks the president, _looking at me.

"Yes. _I'm completely all right with that. It felt good. Doing something for a change." _Well, I'm the one who ran off, after all, of course I'm all right with it.

"I'm not," Peeta says, and for a split second I think that he's going to tell Coin what I did, that he will spill the secret that Boggs, the insects, the bodyguards, Haymitch and Plutarch have all kept from her. I send him a warning look, which he seems to ignore. "This ends, right now, right here. Both Katniss and the baby nearly died out there, and she's not going back to another district where she could be facing a Capitol attack like the one in Eight. Not for a propo. Not for anything. It's just not happening." Peeta doesn't get angry very often, but when he does, he's a force to be reckoned with. He's staring Coin straight in the eye, leaning forward slightly in his chair. I'm sure she hasn't forgotten that the last time they were in the same room, when he threatened to kill her if anything happened to be me or the baby.

That very nearly became a reality, and we all know it.

"Don't you think that's a decision that should belong to Katniss?" Plutarch objects.

"No. I don't think she's in a state right now where she should be making life or death decisions," Peeta answers, shooting Plutarch an angry look.

"I have to agree with Peeta here," Dr Aurelius says suddenly, and everyone turns to look at him. "Katniss has been on a self-destructive path for quite some time, and this may be just one more manifestation of her condition."

Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality, I wonder. "What do you mean by 'my condition'?" I hiss at him. I'm so sick of all this pregnancy talk. Calling my pregnancy a "condition" just really pisses me off.

"The Victor Syndrome."

«And what the fuck is that?» I ask him, my eyes narrowed. I know I shouldn't be swearing, particularly not here, but I'm angry and hurt, and I **hate** when they talk about me as if I'm some kind of frail person who's about to break.

I wish I could break. I wish I had that luxury.

"It's not an official diagnosis – yet – but once this war is over with, and communications in the medical community return, I hope to be able to add it to the official list of diagnoses. I've had the privilege of meeting a lot of victors over the years – before I came here, I worked in the Capitol." I had no idea he was originally from the Capitol. There is nothing that betrays where he comes from, not even a hint of a Capitol accent. "I've established the diagnostic criteria and an extensive list of symptoms. It strongly resembles Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, but is, in many ways, even more extreme, and includes more elements of both depression and paranoia, as well as a distinct distrust of authorities and quite frequently substance abuse. Recklessness and self-destruction are very common, and these are both emerging trait I've seen in Katniss over the course of our conversations. I'm concerned that her eagerness to seek out dangerous situations, as well as her public displays of sexuality, which would otherwise be very out of character for such a private person, are actually symptoms of her condition."

Just when I was starting to think that perhaps Dr Aurelius is actually a nice person, he stabs me in the back.

"I told you I'm not insane!» I yell at him.

And I think, I am insane. I hide in closets. I secretly wish to die, I just don't have the courage to do anything about it. I often almost feel like I'll suffocate. I've wished that my own baby was dead.

"I'm not saying that you are, Katniss," he assures me. His voice is low, calm. "But what you have been through is extreme, to say the least. You've had to face more trauma and loss than anyone should have to in a lifetime, and you're only nineteen years old. That you are still alive is proof alone of just how strong and able you are. And you're not alone – I see very similar characteristics in most of the other victors as well. Peeta, for instance. Do you really think he'd threaten to kill a president four years ago? Or engage in very indiscreet sexual activities with you? Didn't you ever stop to think what you were doing was actually all about?" He looks from me, over to Peeta and then back to me. We both blush and shake our heads. And Dr Aurelius continues: "Annie, Finnick, Beetee, Johanna, Haymitch… All of them are battling demons that are directly connected to what they went through, first in the arena, and then later when they had to maneuver through life as a victor. Which for many of you has turned out to be just as bad as actually being in the Games."

My head is really pounding now. I close my eyes, the room is a haze around me.

"And if you think this is a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality, you may be right. But everyone here **needs** to understand what you're going through. That Peeta is right, you need to be protected from yourself. You need to focus on trying to recover, instead of being further traumatized by events such as what happened in Eight a few days ago." I open my eyes to look at him at last, and I see that he knows what Coin doesn't – he knows about my direct disobedience. How I placed myself in great danger.

How I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Fire. Fire everywhere. Screaming children, being consumed by the flames. Girls on fire. Like me, only they are dead, and no one even knows their names anymore, because they are too many to count, and everyone who knew them is dead.

Forgotten.

Coin is studying me closely. What she sees must be so different from the dark, furious Mockingjay still playing on repeat up on the screen behind her. What she sees, is a shivering, pale, injured pregnant girl. I'm only holding on by a thread. "I agree. We can't send Katniss back into possible combat the way things are now. Your pregnancy is a good excuse we can use if anyone asks, which should be enough in itself even without the… rest." Peeta grabs my hand, squeezes it tight. He looks triumphant, but not happy. He got what he wanted – I won't see any more action, I'll be holed up in District 13 – but he got to know more than he had thought he would, probably more than he ever wanted to know. Not just about me, but about himself as well.

The Victor Syndrome. So now our brokenness even has a name. I'm sure that when this is over, Dr Aurelius will have his name on a series of scientific articles that will make him famous in the medical field and possibly also beyond.

But what about us? The victors. How are we expected to survive?

"So how do we proceed? We need more propos, but we can't send Katniss out to the other districts anymore, and she's not of any use to us in the studio. What do we do?" Coin asks.

"Well, we still have Gale," Plutarch says. "He's ready to be portrayed as a rebel hero in his own right, I think. And then there's Peeta. We can't use him the same way as we would Katniss, but he's great at reaching out to people. He did really well in the hospital in District Eight. Finnick is already a Panem celebrity, it wouldn't take much to make him into a rebellion hero."

"Um, talking about victors, I have an idea," Fulvia says, somewhat nervously. "_Well, I don't know how brilliant it is, but I was thinking we could do a series of propos called **We remember. **In each one, we would feature one of the dead tributes. Like Rue from Eleven, or _Thresh. _The idea being that we could target each district with a very personal piece." _

_"A tribute to the tributes, as it were," says Plutarch._

_"That **is **brilliant, Fulvia," I say, sincerely. "It's the perfect way to remind people why they're fighting."_

_"I think it could work," she says. "I thought we might use Finnick to intro and narrate the spots. If there was interest in them. _And interviewing Peeta for the most recent Hunger Games would be perfect, he has such a way with words._"_

_"Frankly, I don't see how we could have too many **We remember **propos," says Coin. "Can you start producing them today?"_

_"Of course," says Fulvia, obviously mollified by the response to her idea. _

"I'd love to contribute," Peeta says, and Fulvia nods. "I have a few ideas, I'll run them by you later." Then he looks at me. "I think it's time to get you to bed," he says. "You're still recovering from the concussion. Your face is ashen."

He actually has to help me get into bed, and I cling to him in the narrow bunk bed. The thought of lying alone is terrifying. I've been drugged for those two nights in the hospital, which helped keep the nightmares somewhat at bay. At least I don't remember having any. But now, without the help of prescription drugs, all I have is Peeta's warm body, hands and lips. I'm shivering, and so is he. I know we both have lots of new additions to our nightmares now.

Even more fire. Screams. Faces.

The young mother from Eight with her burned child in her lap. Her eyes glow at me through the flames. I wake screaming that night, more times than I can remember.

* * *

_**Did you really think that I'm cruel enough to let their baby die? Well... I guess I've been pretty cruel to Katniss and Peeta in the past, so you never know. ;) Please review! Reviews actually do make me update faster, whether you believe it or not. **_


	30. Chapter 30: Just us

**Chapter 30: Just us**

The next day, Peeta kindly allows me to spend a few hours in a closet, he even follows me there. I can't escape from him now that my leg is still injured, I'm just too slow, but he seems to understand how I need some darkness and solitude, having firm walls around me, here in this cramped, overpopulated underground district. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he says, kissing my hair. "I'll go talk to Finnick and Fulvia about the propos."

I wonder why he's so eager to do the "We remember"-propos, but I suppose the more he participates, the less I have to contribute. I fully expect that I'll have to do my part, and I will. I want them to remember tributes like little Rue. And Foxface, Thresh… Emilia. I want them to remember who they were. To see that they were people, something more than just TV entertainment. I want them to recognize the futility of their deaths. I want the people in the Capitol who only viewed the Hunger Games as great entertainment to feel ashamed of themselves. I want everyone to remember that they were just **children**, children who never asked to be reaped. And even the careers, the ones who volunteered – what choice did they really have? They were trained to become tributes from they were very young. They were told it was a great honor. What was systematically done to them was just as wrong as what was did to us, the children from other districts who were throw into the Hunger Games utterly unprepared as nothing else than cannon fodder, expected to die for the sake of entertainment.

Peeta has a strange look on his face when he returns a few hours later to coax me out of the closet, but doesn't answer my questions about how it went. Instead he changes the subject. "Finnick had another idea," he says. "He's proposed to Annie, and they want to get married now, here in District 13."

"I didn't think he was the traditional type," I say. "I mean, does it really matter to him if they are married when the child is born or not?" Annie is starting to show, like me. Being a pregnant bride was always regarded as a great shame in District 12.

"Oh, it's not because of the baby. Finnick of all people wouldn't care about that. They simply want to get married now because they have already lost so much time, so many years. He said he doesn't want to waste one more day, although Plutarch talked him into postponing the wedding for a week."

"So what does that have to do with the propo?"

He grins. "Finnick wants to broadcast the wedding and the party afterwards. To show Snow that he couldn't keep them apart, that their love is real. He also wants the people of District 13 to celebrate love and happiness, they haven't had much reason to celebrate anything in years."

I raise an eyebrow. He's using their wedding as propaganda, much like Snow used ours.

But I like the idea. Because this wedding is real.

* * *

That night, in the semi-darkness of the green night light, Peeta touches me tentatively. I know him and his signals so well now, so I instantly know what he wants, but this hesitation is new.

I, however, don't hesitate. I take off his t-shirt, throwing it on the floor, and allow my hands to roam his chest, my tongue flicking over a nipple. He gasps in response, his hips bucking against my thigh reflexively. I'm about to go lower, pregnancy be damned, when he stops me.

"Katniss…" There is pain in his voice.

I abandon my trail of kisses on my way down his toned body, and move up in bed instead, my lips nearly touching his but not quite. I gently stroke his cheek with one hand, I can just barely see his eyes in the night light. "What is it?" I whisper.

"Do you think he's right?"

"Who?"

"Dr Aurelius."

There are a lot of things he could be right or wrong about. My suicidal ideation. Our diagnosis. The fact that his Victor Syndrome exists at all. But here, now, in this context, I know what he means. It could only be our public displays of sexuality – well, really loud sex, to be more specific - and why we were doing it. "I don't know," I answer honestly. I pause briefly before I ask him: "How does it make you feel?"

He takes a deep breath. "I feel… Cheap. I don't know, I…" Peeta usually has such a great way with words, but now he seems stuck, confused. "I feel guilty. I loved it when you screamed underneath me, screaming my name… I **loved** that I could do that to you. Even when I knew, deep down, that you were partly doing it on purpose. Weren't you?"

I nibble on his chin. "How good it felt… That wasn't me putting on a show for District 13. It wasn't a rebellion. It was all real."

I can feel, rather than actually see, his faint smile. "I know. But still… I hate how even this, us being together, has become… Well, a rebellion. I want there to be only two persons in our bed. You and me. Shutting the world out. And instead, by… Doing what we were doing… We were bringing all the world in here with us. I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime. After our wedding night…"

I nod, I don't want to talk about that night. There's just too much emotion – good and bad – connected to it. Love. Passion. Caring. But also hopelessness, fear and a feeling of violation. But Peeta continues: "Snow still has the tapes, I guess." I close my eyes. "Do you think he'll use them?"

I wonder why he's bringing up this now. "What would he use them for?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe… Editing them into something… That they're not."

His cock, which just a few minutes ago was nearly fully erect against my thigh, is now soft. Not surprisingly, considering what we're talking about.

"I keep going over it and over it in my head… Figuring out if I've been using you. You know, here in Thirteen. Using you, your body, to deal with the pain. And I don't know if…"

"Shhhhh," I whisper, putting one finger against his lips to silence him. "It's not a crime when we've both been using each other, is it?"

There are tears in his eyes now. I hate myself for it, how I seem to keep hurting him. Hurting my husband, my Peeta, my constant, my savior. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out. "Yes, I've been using you," I continue. "And you've been using me. But that's okay. I'm not angry with you, or with myself. We're just trying to deal with this… this impossible situation that we're in… If I can provide you with a brief relief from some of the frustration and anger and pain, then I'm okay with it. And you do the same for me. And do you know why it's okay?" I kiss him on the lips now, not passionately or insistently, just sweetly. Full of love. "Because we love each other. Whatever happens."

He returns my kiss now, and I allow myself to lose myself in it. When he at last breaks the kiss, he whispers: "Sometimes I can hardly believe it. That you love me now. I waited for so many years, longed for you… I just never thought I'd… be here with you like this." His fingers are playing with a lock of my hair.

"I never thought I'd be here like this with anyone," I answer him honestly.

He smiles, and kisses my forehead. He bites his lip, and I know what he's trying very hard not to ask.

"No, not even with Gale," I growl, pretending to be angry but failing miserably.

I giggle as he suddenly turns me over, pinning me to the bed. "Don't mention him when you're in my bed," he says demandingly as he bites my ear, carefully, but still just hard enough to hurt a little bit. I lie with my hands up over my head, relaxed and completely defenseless underneath him.

But we both know this isn't about Gale.

We need to take it back. Take what we lost because we were both hurting so much we allowed the pain to come with us in here, into bed. We need to take back what is ours.

"Just us?" I whisper, suddenly feeling too young and too scared in the darkness.

"Just us," he whispers back, serious now as he's looking down at me. He's sitting on my hips, his thighs on either side of me take some of the weight off my pelvis, which can't take what it used to anymore. He's unable to fully lie on top of me because of my bump, instead he's supporting himself with his elbows to hover above my face. And then he kisses me. Slowly, deeply, making me forget everything. Chasing off the shadows.

"I'll try very hard to not to fuck you so well that you need to scream my name off the top of your lungs," he smirks as our lips part, and I giggle again. "I can't promise you I'll make it, though."

"Thanks for letting me know what to expect," I answer, and he smiles as he helps me off with my nightgown. I'm bare before him, all I'm wearing is the gray and very unattractive District 13 underwear. His large baker's hands, full of scars from the oven, touch my expanding belly lovingly for a few seconds, then move up to my breasts.

"They've grown," he says, and I blush when I see the passion in his eyes, the admiration.

"Do you like it?" I whisper, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"I'll always love them no matter what they look like," he says honestly. Then his lips close around a nipple, and I have to bite back the scream that seems to come all too easily to me now.

Remember, Katniss, it's just us.

And it is different. I don't need this to chase away the ghosts and the pain, I realize, I need this because I need **him**. He removes my panties, and I'm lying there naked underneath him. His cock is throbbing insistently underneath the bulge in his boxer shorts now, but he doesn't remove his clothing. Instead he just looks at me, at my tangled hair spread over the pillow, at my dilated pupils, my parted, gasping lips. "I love you," he says, and before I have the chance to answer, he dips his head between my thighs, and any coherent thought is lost as his tongue flickers over my clit, his fingers tracing my folds gently and finding me dripping wet already. He hums against me at this discovery, and I instinctively move my hands down to his hair, tugging at it, forcing him to stay where he is, to keep doing what he's doing.

And he does. He has me panting and thrashing about in the narrow bunk bed, and within minutes I feel the pressure building. Where I would previously have been screaming his name, I now make an effort not to. Instead, I whimper and gasp it, over and over again. "Peeta… Peeta… Peeta…" He seems to be driven on by me whimpering his name, that his tongue can coax this response from me, and I feel the pressure building. And when I spasm underneath him, his tongue guides me through my climax and he laps up my fluids as I come down from the wave. My fists are now closed tightly around the bed sheet, the only sound that escapes from my throat is a guttural, protracted «nnnnnnnnnnnnngh».

I lie there, panting, and when I finally open my eyes, I find that Peeta has moved up to lie next to me, his blue eyes dark in the green night light. "Not that I mind you screaming my name…" Peeta says, his words punctuated by light kisses, "But that was pretty hot, too."

"It was just for you," I gasp, and he nods.

"Yes. Just for me." His fingertips explore my face as if it's for the first time, wonderingly.

"One day, when all of this is over…" I tell him, still out of breath, "I'll take you to the woods. To my favorite place, far beyond the fence. Where no one can hear. And I'll scream your name as loudly as I can, and you'll scream mine. And we'll both love it, and it will be just for us, and no one can hear. But until then…"

He smiles. "Just us."

I nod.

Then I realize he's still wearing his boxer shorts. I reach out to touch his hard length through the soft fabric, and he moans under my touch. "I think you liked it, too," I smirk, and he groans my name in my ear. I help him push his boxers down his hips, joining the rest of our clothes on the floor, and shift my hips to accommodate him, allow him entry. I'm so wet from my orgasm, he slips inside easily, and I bite down on his shoulder as he stretches me, completing me. He reaches down to touch my clit again, but I'm still too sensitive from my orgasm, it hurts, and I push his hand away. "Please wait a little," I gasp, and he nods.

Tonight, there is nothing of the desperation I've seen in him lately. His movements are slow, loving, yet decisive. No hesitation.

Deep.

He's in complete control of our union, while maintaining eye contact with me. His face twitches occasionally, his jaw clenches, and I know he's trying very hard to hold back, but whether it's holding back his own orgasm or withholding himself from pounding into me without reservation, I can't say. Nevertheless, it's incredibly arousing just lying here, giving up all control. Watching him, seeing the muscles of his upper body contract, while feeling him move so deep inside me, again and again and again. I keep my hands above my head, allowing myself completely to be at his mercy. I move my hips to meet his, encouraging him with soft moaning sounds and an occasional grunt at a particularly deep thrust, and I can't remember it ever being like this. Not in a long time, anyway.

He is chasing away the shadows.

I feel my body responding to his, again. I'm on the plateau, so close, just from his steady, deep thrusts. No change of positions, no clitoral stimulation, which I usually need to come. He must see it on my face, hear it in my voice, feel it around his cock, because his pupils dilate even further, and he whispers hoarsely: "Come for me, Katniss."

And I do. Everything comes crashing down. My eyes are clenched shut, but I manage to open them for a few seconds, just long enough to watch his face contract as he follows me over the brink, too.

"You're so beautiful when you come," I whisper in his ear after, when he's lying on top of me, supporting his weight on his elbows to keep himself from crushing my bump. He's panting heavily, as am I. A thin layer of sweat covers our bodies, my hands are caressing his back.

He rolls off me, and I curl up next to him, resting my head on his shoulder, his strong arms keeping me close to him. He's lying on his back, looking up at the bottom of the top bunk - the one he'll never sleep in because we both need to be here, together, in this too narrow bed. We can't sleep apart.

"He was right, wasn't he?" Peeta finally says.

I nod against his shoulder. "Yes." My fingertips absentmindedly trace his nipple. "Who are we, Peeta?"

He's silent for a long time, so long that I wonder if he's asleep – but when I look up at him, his eyes are still open. "I don't know," he finally answers. "Everything we thought we knew, changed when we were reaped. And now… the world we grew up in is gone. I don't even know what the rules are anymore." He kisses my hair. "You are the only constant in my life. Well, you and the bump, of course." He caresses my belly, slowly, a smile on his lips. "I know that you have others… Your mother, your sister, Gale. But I only have you. You're the only one who keeps me sane."

And I think, that's a great responsibility. Being someone's only person. But I'll have to be able to find the strength to bear that burden. Because deep inside, I know he's the only person for me as well.

* * *

_**Just a short and somewhat fluffy chapter. Please review! And have a great weekend. :)**_


	31. Chapter 31: Revelations

**Chapter 31: Revelations**

The wedding is in seven days, so there's not much time for preparations. I try to stay out of it at first, but find that this is something that I actually secretly enjoy. I like to lose myself in Annie's happiness and excitement. In the way Finnick looks at her. His hand at the small of her back as he opens the door for her. I try to maintain my signature scowl, but find that from time to time I'm actually smiling in public.

It turns out that arranging a wedding in District 13 isn't as easy as it may sound. _The differences between the Capitol and 13 are thrown into sharp relief by the event. _It would've been easy if Finnick and Annie had wanted to do this the District 13 way, which is to sign a few papers, get assigned new living quarters, and then go about your daily business as if nothing's happened. There's even a tattoo – it says "1100 Getting married", followed by "1130 Lunch", from what I hear.

That won't do for a propo, though, and it certainly won't do for Finnick and Annie.

Plutarch, who's in charge of the wedding planning, has to _fight _with Coin _for every guest, every musical note. After Coin vetoes a dinner, entertainment and alcohol, Plutarch yells: "What's the point of the propo if no one's having any fun!"_

_It's hard to put a Gamemaker on a budget. But even a quiet celebration causes a stir in 13, where they seem to have no holidays at all. When it's announced that children are wanted to sing District 4's wedding song, practically every kid shows up. There's no shortage of volunteers to help make decorations. In the dining hall, people chat excitedly about the events. _

_Maybe it's more than the festivities. Maybe it's that we are all so starved for something good to happen that we want to be part of it. _

I make one **We Remember** propo for Rue and one for Emilia. I'm not able to help with the wedding preparations for the rest of that day because I'm a wreck after. I cry myself to sleep that night, dreaming of flowers and Rue's little face, blood running from the corner of her mouth as she dies.

* * *

In the morning, I get another Report to Command tattoo on my forearm. I want to ignore it, but I have learned by now that I can't. Peeta seems uneasy, he won't meet my eyes and doesn't talk to me as we go there, and I have a feeling he knows what this is about.

I'm met by Plutarch, Fulvia, Haymitch, Finnick and Annie. No one else. This is the first time Annie has been here, and it's also the first time Coin hasn't. What's going on?

Surprisingly, Peeta is the one who starts talking, addressing me directly. So he did know what this is all about. "Two days ago, when you were… Resting…" Well, I was hiding in a closet, but resting sounds nicer. Thanks. "…I never told you what I did. Well, Finnick and I made a propo. Together. It was originally supposed to be for the **We remember**-series, but we thought we would do something… quite different."

I look at Annie. She is as confused as I am.

"We thought we would share the footage with you first, before it's aired," Finnick continues, looking from Annie, to me, and then back to Annie again. "To give you the chance to veto parts of it if you wish. Because it involves you, too."

Plutarch turns on the large screen on the wall, and footage of Finnick and Peeta, sitting next to each other in identical chairs, fills the screen. They have both clearly been prepped beyond Beauty Base Zero, but not too much. Finnick looks handsome as usual. His hair is slightly longer than it was when he first came here, and he looks a lot more natural now than he used to when he was in the Capitol. Less polished, no glitter, no bronze. I know this is something at least the women in the districts will react favorably to. What women in the Capitol prefer, I honestly don't know. Peeta looks quite a lot younger than Finnick, and although he's not as dashingly handsome as the almost impossibly beautiful Finnick, it feels as if he's reaching out through the screen to me. I have no idea how he can be so naturally comfortable around cameras.

It starts innocently enough, with some introductory small talk between Finnick, Peeta and Plutarch. Then Finnick takes a deep breath, and starts talking about his life as a victor. It's clear they have discussed before the interview who is going to talk first, that Finnick will start with his story. When it's obvious which direction the conversation is taking – at least for us, who know what Finnick has been through - Haymitch says behind the camera: _"You don't have to do this." _

He shakes his head slightly. "I know. But they need to know."

His story is absolutely heartbreaking. He won the 65th Hunger Games at the age of 14, one of the youngest victors ever. Five days after he was released from the hospital after winning, on the eve of his Victor's Banquet, his virginity was sold to a 45-year-old Capitol woman.

I feel sick. This is what would have been mine or Peeta's destiny if only one of us had won the Hunger Games. Or this is what would've happened if we had refused to get married, or refused to consummate our marriage.

Finnick was only 14.

Bastards.

I already knew that he was forced into prostitution, of course, but still his story moves me to tears. The people of Panem, on the other hand, have no idea. They think he's some kind of playboy, always partying with a new woman – or man – in his arms. This propo will shatter everything they thought they knew about Finnick and how the Capitol treats victors.

This story will be dynamite.

He tells us everything, with incredible bravery. Of how scared he was. The look in the woman's eyes, both mocking and greedy, when she asked him if he was a virgin, and he answered yes. How he was ashamed that she would get him hard, even though he didn't really want to. How he had felt that his body betrayed him – three times that night. And, at the same time, how scared he was of not being **good** enough, being the clumsy virgin that he was, of what would happen if she filed a complaint with Snow the next morning - would they hurt his family?

How he cried after. How Mags comforted him. She knew what he was going through, because she had suffered the same fate herself. She said it was a relief when she became too old, too unattractive, to get any more envelopes. And he knew that he was decades away from that himself, and that made him cry even harder.

Annie is crying openly, and on screen, so is Peeta. Finnick himself, strangely, seems somewhat disconnected from it. Only when he says that this is something almost all the victors have been subjected to, does his voice start shaking, and he takes a deep breath to be able to continue. "Even… Annie. She was in a very, very dark place mentally after the Hunger Games, but Snow knew that I loved her, probably before I even knew it myself. He also knew that I'd been somewhat... distracted with some of my clients lately, simply because I'd been so scared that Annie would die in the Hunger Games that nothing else seemed to matter. I **knew** she would die, that she would ever win was unthinkable. The fact that she did was a freak accident, really, and several gamemakers were beheaded afterwards. It was quite the scandal."

He pauses, for the first time he seems to fight back tears. "I couldn't even admit to myself that she was the reason why I was so upset. It certainly wasn't the first time I'd lost tributes in the arena, and I thought I'd gotten somewhat used to it, detached from it. I didn't understand my own reaction. I had several complaints from customers, which I would normally make very sure I wouldn't get. You see, when you get three complaints from three different customers, the Capitol will do something to hurt you. This usually means that someone in your family will either die or be seriously injured in an "accident". My sister was murdered when I was 16 because of it. I was in a teenage rebellious phase, and I'd started not caring about getting my clients to… climax. In effect, I had her killed. At her funeral, I made a vow to myself that I would never, ever let that happen again. That this - fucking whoever wanted me enough to pay Snow to have me - was the one thing I could do to protect my family. But then… When I got to three complaints again… Instead of killing someone in my family, or one of my friends, Snow sold Annie. And he made me watch the tapes after." His voice is very low now, there is a hatred there that I've never heard in it before. When he says "watch", he almost spits the word out.

"Tapes?" Plutarch asks.

"Oh, the Capitol is full of hidden cameras. Of course they made very sure to tape everything. They taped how she was assaulted, repeatedly, by a Capitol businessman thrice her age. What happened that night wasn't even prostitution, it was rape. Plain and simple. She was crying, begging and screaming, and the bastard just tied her up when she tried to escape and laughed at her tears. To tell you the truth, I think her resistance… excited him." Finnick's voice is strained, his eyes filled with… murder. This is the victor of the Hunger Games, the experienced killer – and his hatred. This is the one thing he can never forgive.

Plutarch seems to be at a loss for words for a few seconds, but being the professional that he is, he regains his composure quickly. "How did you both survive? How did you even manage to keep up your relationship?"

"At that point there wasn't really a relationship, we were just… The promise, or perhaps more accurately the sweet **potential,** of a relationship. Of love. I can't even tell you when it happened, really, Annie kind of… snuck up on me. I'd known who she was for years, since we were children. Our paths had crossed many times back in District Four, but she was a few years younger than me, so she never truly caught my interest. She was just a child when I was reaped, and after I won the Hunger Games, I frankly had too much to worry about to even consider dating any girls from my own district. I never thought that I would be… worthy of one. Because of what I had to do." He looks down, clearly ashamed. "The first time Annie and I really had the chance to talk, to get to know each other, was after she was reaped – on the train to the Capitol, and later during the preparations for the Games. We would spend as much time as we possibly could together. I would come up with any excuse to be able to meet her. To make her smile, even though she knew she was going to die. I didn't know what I was doing myself, but looking back, it must have been so easy to see right through me. And Snow, of course, did."

He takes a deep breath, looking down. His voice is strained when he continues: "After the Hunger Games, after a short series of clients and a psychiatric assessment that said she was too broken to be of any use to the Capitol, Annie was sent back to District Four. And I'd gotten yet another person I had to protect by sleeping with whoever paid the most. It took years for us to actually become a couple. At first I didn't dare to, I was afraid that being with me would be too dangerous for her – but in the end, I just couldn't stay away from her. And to my amazement, she still wanted to be with me." His sea-green eyes are glowing now, and the love he feels for her seems to radiate through the screen. Then he looks over at Peeta. "I have to confess that we were also inspired by the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve," he grins. "It's not easy to be a victor and try to live anything that even resembles a normal life, let alone do it with another victor. Two broken persons in one relationship is generally at least one too many. But when we saw Katniss and Peeta… We found out that we had wasted too much time."

"You are getting married in a few days?" Plutarch says.

"Yes," he answers, and when I see that smile, I understand why he seems irresistible to just about anyone with two X-chromosomes, and quite a few with a Y chromosome as well. "We are finally free of the oppression, free of Snow's chains. We are free to marry, to be together for the rest of our lives. No one can stop us now. We're expecting a baby boy – who would have thought that we can finally start our real lives together, after all these years?"

Plutarch turns to Peeta. My heart is pounding, I have a bad feeling about this. I'm starting to understand why Peeta seemed so strange after he came back from doing this interview. Just how much did he tell? "But as the star-crossed lovers of District 12, Katniss and you surely escaped being forced into prostitution?" Plutarch asks Peeta.

Peeta sighs. "In a way, yes. In another… No.»

I close my eyes. I realize he's going to tell Panem everything.

"I don't understand," Plutarch says, although I think he knows most of what Peeta's going to say already.

"First of all, you have to understand that the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve weren't real," he says. "There is no use in sugarcoating it. What you saw in the arena, it wasn't what you thought it was. It wasn't even what** I** thought – or hoped - it was." Where is he going with this? I think desperately – doesn't he realize that this will turn people away from us, from me? From the Mockingjay? How would Coin ever allow anything like this to be aired? "What I said in the interview with Caesar Flickerman before the Hunger Games was all true. I was in love with her, I had been ever since we were five years old. Katniss had absolutely no idea – I never had the courage to tell her, I barely even talked to her. She would keep to herself, and she wouldn't even acknowledge that I existed most of the time. How do you tell a girl that you've loved her for more than ten years when you can't even bring yourself to ask her a question about homework? I thought I would die when she volunteered for her sister, I literally thought that my life was over. Then, a minute later, I was reaped myself, and then I **knew** that my life was over. I knew I'd never win the Hunger Games, I could never compete with the careers. The only thing I could hope for, was to help her win. To help her live."

He smiles a shy smile. "But for the first time I could at least actually **talk** to her, although I'm not sure she liked me much. She certainly didn't trust me. I confided in Haymitch, however, and he came up with a plan – a plan to try to get both of us out of the arena alive. It would be the first time in the history of the Hunger Games, if we succeeded, but Haymitch thought it might work. I didn't tell Katniss anything before the interview, so her shocked reaction was genuine. She was forced to play along, we desperately needed to get sponsors, and our plan to get both of us out of the arena alive depended on us being in the favor of the Capitol audience. And believe me, Katniss Everdeen really hates doing anything she didn't come up with herself." He raises an eyebrow, and Plutarch chuckles.

"But how did you get from being fake star-crossed lovers to where you are today?" Plutarch asks. "Because you are still together now, aren't you? Even after you were rescued from District Twelve? I've seen you two together, and there's no question in my mind that you are a real couple now!" Well, you've almost certainly heard him fucking me, along with the rest of the district, so I can understand why you don't question the current status of our relationship.

Peeta smiles now, the genuine, incredible smile that he saves for special occasions, the one that makes me forget everything else. Except now I know he's smiling that smile to manipulate – or move, whatever you prefer to call it – Panem. "Yes, Plutarch, we are. And the story of how we got there is so incredible it's hard to believe, even for myself."

And he tells Plutarch of how Peeta and I, who actually hardly knew each other, pretended to be in love in the arena of the 74th Hunger Games – or, more accurately, that **I **pretended to be in love. Peeta manages to make me sound shy and terrified, instead of a total bitch for not loving Peeta back when he was madly in love with me. That's no small feat in itself. He talks of the one kiss we had in the arena that was… real. How I saved his life, and how the berries changed everything. How I wasn't really sure what I felt for him, but that there was no way I could kill Peeta, and how that led to the ultimate act of rebellion.

We cheated at the game.

But everything had happened too fast for me, which led to us hardly speaking to each other at all when we came back home. Peeta talks about how hurt he was when he realized what had been going on, that it had all been an act on my part. And then… The victory tour. The nightmares. How we would spend the night together, just sleeping, to keep the nightmares at bay. Two terrified 17-year-olds, who would never really get away from the Hunger Games. Ever.

"We grew together," he says. "There is no other way to explain it. At the end of the day, no one but the two of us – and Haymitch – truly understood what we had been through. Katniss became my rock, as I became hers. I may have been heartbroken, but I never stopped loving her, how could I? It could never be anyone but her for me. And Katniss, well, she… I think, slowly, imperceptibly probably even for her, she started loving me. For real. You have to remember that we were both very young, we were traumatized, and neither of us had any kind of experience in relationships or romance before. We had been forced into a relationship far too quickly, at least on Katniss' end. It was much easier for me, I had a huge head start on her – I had loved her for so long. Katniss had to work through a lot more than I did."

"But surely she came around in the end? I mean, you got married after all, didn't you?"

"We only got married because we were forced to, Plutarch," Peeta says, looking down. "We didn't have any choice. The lives of our families were hanging in the balance. When you look at footage from that day, Katniss looks pale and a bit distant, and everyone thought that she was just nervous on our big day, which is normal for any bride. But she wasn't just any bride – she had never asked to be one. She was scared. Terrified, even. What I didn't know then, what she didn't tell me until that night, was that we had not only been forced to get married years before we would really be ready to – Snow had also threatened to sell our virginities to the highest bidders the next morning if we didn't consummate our marriage on our wedding night."

His eyes are dark and angry now, and Plutarch makes a surprised, gasping sound. He seems genuinely surprised, I don't think he knew. And having just heard what happened to Annie and Finnick, the viewers will not doubt for one second that Snow's threat wasn't empty.

"So you hadn't… been intimate?» Plutarch asks.

Peeta shakes his head. «No. We were practically living together, we would spend every night together – but that was to help each other through our debilitating nightmares. The only interesting thing that happened in our bed, was sleep." He smiles sadly, but the smile is quickly gone. "Do you have any idea what it's like to make love to your girlfriend – your **wife** – for the first time when she doesn't really want to, Plutarch? It was me or some unknown Capitol pig. We would have ended up like Annie and Finnick and most of the other victors if we didn't. We had no real choice. Of course our situation was – after all –preferable to theirs. But still, it's probably the most degrading thing I have ever experienced in my life, and being a victor, I'm used to being degraded, believe me. Seeing her bravery and her fear broke my heart. Knowing what I had to do to her against her will... We knew they were watching, that they were filming, like they did… With Annie." He mutters something under his breath. He pauses slightly, as if trying to compose himself. Then he continues:

"You have to understand, Plutarch, that what Snow does to his victors, is to take away their humanity. We are just a commodity to him, we're not really **people**. Every year, 24 children are reaped, they are to fight to the death in the arena. That in itself is an almost unbelievable horror, and as a result, the lone victor who survives the bloodbath is more often than not broken, destroyed for life. But if that wasn't enough, after the Hunger Games, when we think that we are safe and will never be hungry and scared again, we are sold. He sells our bodies, our souls. The arena is just the beginning – for the rest of our lives, we'll have to live under Snow's rule. There is a long line of victors to demonstrate the many self-destructive paths that have been taken to be able to somehow survive life after the arena. In our case, Katniss and I were still, despite everything, growing together – and that's what I mean by our story being hard to believe, even for myself, because I suppose it shouldn't have happened. The wedges that Snow had driven between us should have broken us apart, but they didn't. The star-crossed lovers were becoming real – we lived in a real marriage, and our love wasn't just one-sided anymore, it was **real**." Again, a short pause, the shadow of a smile. "But then, of course, Snow did it again – things weren't going his way in the districts. Katniss was the Mockingjay, the symbol of the rebellion, and he needed to show Panem that he controlled her. So, by threatening to have her little sister Prim be reaped, he forced us to conceive a child."

I can only imagine the uproar that will go through Panem when they hear this.

"Even when it came to creating new life, Snow called the shots. We are 19 years old, and we were ordered to conceive a baby at a point in our relationship when this was absolutely not something we were ready for. In effect, Snow made Katniss choose between her sister and her future child. We both knew that if we had a child together, our child would certainly end up in the Hunger Games, and there is no way Snow would ever allow our child to win. The Hunger Games are rigged, as are the reapings, and everyone knows it. We had to choose between signing Prim's death warrant, and our child's."

"All of this must come as a huge shock for everyone who is watching. This breaks their illusions of the star-crossed lovers of District 12," Plutarch says. And I think, yes, it does. Why would we want to break that illusion now? What is to be gained from it?

"The star-crossed lovers weren't really who we were, anyway. It was the Capitol's creation. What we have become instead – in spite of Snow, not because of him – is something much stronger, much more powerful. We are a true couple, in every sense of the word. It's not easy to be with a victor, as Finnick already said. It's the hardest thing in the world. We are both so damaged, in so many ways. We both suffer from horrific nightmares. We comfort each other on dark nights when we dream that we are chased by mutts, when we dream of eating deadly berries, of my murdered family, of our District which doesn't even exist anymore. I dream of losing Katniss nearly every night, and every time when I wake up after one of those nightmares, I have to snuggle close to her sleeping body and breathe in the scent of her hair, to assure myself that it wasn't real, that she's still **here**. That she hasn't been taken from me. I couldn't live without her. I won't allow Snow and what he's made us do taint our relationship." He's leaning forward in his chair now, his voice intense and compelling. "We are real, we are strong, we will prevail. We will welcome our daughter with love, and she will always be loved for who she is, despite the circumstances of her conception. She will grow up in a free Panem. She won't have to go to bed hungry. We won't be able to count her ribs. She won't have to fear being reaped. She will go to school, and the things she will read in the history books will be the truth. She will be able to choose her own profession, choose who to marry, to have opinions on the government and the society she lives in, and she will be able to express those opinions without fear of retribution. This is what every child in Panem deserves, and that's why Snow's oppression must end. Katniss and I have both experienced just how devastating it is when your life is no longer under your control. We can never allow that to happen to our daughter. She has given us the world's best reason to fight. Snow tried to take away our humanity, to reduce us to something that could be bought and sold. Our love has shown Panem that there is hope even when under oppression, that there is a new way, a better way."

Fulvia pauses the tape, and it freezes as Peeta smiles on the screen. "It goes on for a while longer," she says. "Finnick reveals some of the secrets he learned in the Capitol. I guess you don't know many of the people he's talking about, but it's brilliant, really – it will cause an uproar, and heads will roll. The Capitol will never be the same."

And I wonder, will** I** ever be the same, if they air this? Do I want everyone to know?

I don't. But at the same time, keeping it secret only protects one person, and that person is Snow.

"What does Coin say?" I ask. "I'm surprised she'd even consider airing this."

"It's been the source of heated debate for the last day or so," Plutarch admits. "There is fear that this could backfire. That it's just too much information for the public to handle. Finnick's part would probably be okay, but what Peeta says about the star-crossed lovers… We don't know the effect it could have on the rebellion. It would humanize you, and we don't know if that's a good idea. At the same time, that's what we did in District Eight, too. Made you human. And the districts are really responding to it, from what we hear from our contacts. What we ended up deciding, was that this is a great way of showing the cruelty of Snow's regime. To show what was done to victors, who were supposed to live the rest of their lives in luxury and safety. Every promise that was ever made to you was broken, you were controlled, sold and humiliated. It truly shows the lengths Snow will go to to get what he wants. So yes, we will air everything - if you and Annie allow it."

Once this footage is out there, it can never be taken back. Everyone will **know**.

At the same time, I know that many of Snow's atrocities are hard to take in, they are difficult to grasp for most people. They are just too **much **for a human brain to take in. But everyone has a daughter or a son, or they are one. Almost everyone has someone in their life that they love. Hearing how Snow has manipulated and controlled even the most intimate and personal decisions in our lives will most likely touch them in a way that burning buildings and well-written speeches can't, because it cuts so close to their own lives. To who they are. Forcing 14-year-old boys into prostitution? Threaten two teenagers into conceiving a child? There's not a parent in Panem who won't look at his or her own child and think: This must never, ever happen to my son, my daughter.

They need to know. They need to know the truth.

"I'm okay with it," Annie says. Her voice is surprisingly strong. Her nervous hands are still for once. She appears so frail, but there is much more strength beneath her pale exterior than it seems. She may have become a victor by chance, but she's not loved by Finnick by chance. She's holding his hand. "What's in the past is in the past. The past can't hurt us anymore."

I feel a kick inside my belly, and I'm not sure if that's the case for Peeta and me.

No one says anything for a long, long time. Everyone's looking at me. I'm looking at my hands, lying in my lap, shaking. "I think you should do a short interview with me as well," I finally say, looking up at Plutarch, meeting his eyes. "Just a few short… commentaries. About my side of it, not just Peeta's." I lift my chin defiantly.

I won't let Snow win. I will never let Snow win.

* * *

I don't have that much to add, really. Peeta is there by my side to support me. We're holding hands, and in a way it's much like the victor interview with Caesar Flickerman so long ago. Only there is no need to smile and pretend anymore. Peeta doesn't say much, he's just a steadying presence.

He was so brave. Finnick, too. Now I need to try to be brave as well.

This interview will never be as scandalous as Finnick's and Peeta's interview, but at least the viewers will see **me**. They need to see me participate. I confirm, first of all, that everything Peeta said earlier was true. Then I feel that I really need to emphasize Peeta's role in our story, because everyone keeps focusing on **me**. The Mockingjay. But it's not just me, there are two of us. Snow picked me as the rebellious one, and Peeta was just more or less a prop to him, and Coin has kept up with the same line of thinking. But that's not the way it really is. Peeta saw what the Hunger Games were all about, much earlier than I did myself. On the rooftop in the Capitol, the last night before we were sent into the arena to fight to our deaths, all I could think about was surviving, coming back to Prim. His main concern was not dying, he had already accepted that he would, it was not letting the Capitol destroy who he was. I didn't fully understand just how brave that was back then, but I do now. How much it says about Peeta as a person.

"I don't think anyone fully realized just how important Peeta is, that he is the reason we are both even alive. I could never have maneuvered through the Capitol, with all its pitfalls and secrets, for several years without him and his instincts of how to react. How to say the right thing, how to move the crowd. And through it all – through all the things we were forced to do… Mentoring… Watching children kill each other, losing tributes…" I have to fight back the tears now, but this is not the time for tears. "He got us through that nightmare of a wedding. What it must have taken for him to marry me, knowing I wasn't where he was in our relationship… I can't even begin to imagine how difficult that must've been for him, but still he was worried about **me**, not about himself. He's been there through all of it, he's been so strong. Never hesitating, always just wanting what's best for me. Sometimes I wonder if Peeta is the last truly **good** person left in Panem." Well, Peeta and Prim, but getting onto the subject of my sister would sidetrack the interview.

"I think I speak for all of Panem when I say that I am truly happy for you two – that you found together at last, despite everything you've been through," Plutarch says.

I feel very uncomfortable with "all of Panem" having any kind of thoughts about our relationship, but I guess I should be used to it by now. After all, people have had opinions about our relationship since long before there even was one. "Thank you," I answer, it doesn't really seem like I could say anything else.

"What do you want? After the war. How do you imagine your future with Peeta?"

I'm startled, I didn't expect that question. What do I want? I've been refusing myself to think about the future, because it scares me. I've learned the hard way that I can't plan for the future. And even if we do survive, if the rebels win the war, the future is filled with the confusion and uncertainty - related to both having the baby and what will happen in Panem. Will the republic idea really work out? Will we just be trading one dictatorship for another?

Yet the answer comes surprisingly easy to me. Perhaps it's been there all along, I just didn't realize it myself. "I want to go back to Twelve. I want to rebuild our district from the ashes. Together with Peeta, and anyone else who wants to return." I smile to Plutarch, and this time my smile is genuine. "It's home. Snow thinks he has taken it from us, but he hasn't. I won't let him take our home from us."

And just like that, I know what to do.

It's natural. Like breathing.

No thinking or panicking needed or required. I don't know how or when, or if we'll ever live to see it, but I know I need to go back. I need to go home.

With Peeta.

* * *

Johanna makes a propo as well. Her story is as terrifying as Finnick's, but in a different way. Unlike most of the other victors, she refused to give in to Snow. She refused to sell her body. Her first two clients ended up in the hospital. She may have been just a teenage girl, but she was also a trained killer, a victor fresh from the Hunger Games. She didn't even think twice about attacking two adult men, on two consecutive nights. Men who were trying to fuck her against her will.

Her younger brother died in a mysterious freak gas accident after the second night.

On the third night, Johanna, like Annie, was tied to the bed. But this time it was done by four peacekeepers. There was no escape.

Her third client was the one who finally raped her.

He still filed a complaint after, though, because she wasn't a virgin. She wasn't what he had thought - knowing what had happened to the first two men who had tried, he had expected her to be innocent. A ruthless child killer, yet untouched.

Only she wasn't.

And her grandmother slipped and fell from the roof, and broke her neck. What the 75-year-old woman was doing up there, no one knew.

There are tears in her eyes when she says: "Afterwards, after… it happened… When I was still tied to that bed… I was so glad that that bastard wasn't my first. That my first time was something that I had decided to do **myself**, that it was something the Capitol couldn't take from me. But when my grandmother was killed in effect **because** I had had those few relationships back home before I was reaped, Snow managed to destroy those memories after all. Because if I hadn't had them, if those boys had never existed – then perhaps my grandmother wouldn't have been killed."

Snow tried to set her up with more clients, but Johanna didn't cooperate at all. Most of the Capitol clients didn't want a very expensive whore who was either drugged out of her mind or tied up to a bed, screaming profanities at them and not doing anything to pleasure them at all. Some men like that – but most don't.

"Within a month, Snow had killed all my family and all my friends," Johanna whispers. She doesn't cry. There are no tears left. "Snow realized too late that by killing all of my family, there was nothing he could pressure me with anymore. I just… didn't care. There was no one left. He stopped trying to sell me. I think he regarded me as a nuisance. An embarrassing one. I'd made him look like a fool. He had me tortured at one point. It must have been half-hearted on his part, because if he'd really been into it, I wouldn't have survived. But in the end I guess he figured I just wasn't important enough to kill. I was also useful in mentoring, because there aren't that many victors from my district. So I was allowed to live – mainly as a reminder to the other victors, I think. That this is how you end up if you don't cooperate. You end up like Johanna. With no one left to love."

She pauses, looking down at the floor. She swallows repeatedly, clearly fighting tears. "I regret it, every single day. It wasn't worth it. I should just have let them do it to me."

* * *

They'll do the final editing, working through the night, and start airing the propos the next day, to fill in the gap in the propaganda before the wedding. I know we have to talk to my mother and Prim first, they shouldn't hear this for the first time on TV. My mother knows most of it already, or at least suspects it, but I don't think Prim does.

It's hard to tell her, especially the bit about the wedding night. And how her being reaped was what Snow used to blackmail us into getting pregnant. She had thought that me getting pregnant was our own decision, or at least that it was just an accident. "I'm so sorry, Katniss," she cries on my shoulder, and I tell her, over and over, that it's not her fault, that she can't blame herself for anything that's happened to me or Peeta.

"You realize people will talk?" my mother says, and I nod.

"They already do. At least now they will know the truth."

* * *

They're supposed to air the propos for the first time in the afternoon, and for the first time, Finnick, Annie, Johanna, Peeta and I get the same appointment tattooed on the insides of our arms after lunch. That's surely not a coincidence. We don't really care about the appointment in itself, which is for some kind of training we're obviously not going to take part in anyway. Instead we end up sitting in Peeta's and my room, all five of us. Finnick is teaching us some new knots. It's strangely soothing, working with the rope, doing the same knots, over and over again. I think we all feel sheltered in here, and none of us wants to think about what might meet us once we have to face everyone else.

Now they will all know.

We talk about the upcoming wedding instead. It's a safe, pleasant topic. Peeta asks all the right questions, of course, and Annie tells us about her wedding dress, even showing us a photo of the half-finished dress. Finding a wedding dress was very difficult, and it took Haymitch two days to talk Coin into accepting that gray pants and a gray t-shirt just wasn't good enough for a wedding propo. It turned out one of the survivors from District 12 was a seamstress, and there was some white fabric in storage in District 13, which Coin admitted to after Haymitch had nagged her for hours. Combined with some new, white sheets from the hospital, it will make a beautiful wedding dress, and Annie is glowing as she talks about it.

"You deserve this so much, Annie," I tell her. "Both of you," I add, looking at Finnick. It's impossible not to be touched by their love. Johanna has the most bizarre and embarrassing suggestions for their wedding night, and we're all dissolved in laughter.

And then it's time for dinner. We all look at the watch on our bed stand – Finnick sitting on the floor with a rope in his lap, Peeta and Johanna sitting on the top bunk, Annie and I sitting on the lower bunk. At ten past eight, I finally say: "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. We have twenty minutes left. Let's go."

"Come what may," Peeta murmurs, but we all go.

I hesitate before entering the dining hall, and Peeta notices. He takes my right hand, and automatically, my left hand finds Annie's. She's already holding Finnick's hand, and our eyes meet briefly. He looks pale, but determined. I nod. His hand grabs Johanna's , and she instinctively flinches, then allows him to touch her.

Victors, united.

Without a word, we go inside. All five of us, hand in hand.

I don't know what I had expected, really, what kind of reaction we would get - but it certainly wasn't anything like what actually meets us. The room is quiet, no one's talking. There is just the sound of knives and forks moving against plates, the occasional cough. As soon as we enter, though, all eyes are on us, and everyone stops. It's eerie, it's like the room freezes. A sea of eyes, all on us. I'd stop if I could, but I'm held in place by Annie and Peeta. I can't run. I can't hide. Peeta's hand squeezes mine reassuringly, and I return the squeeze gratefully.

And then – someone starts clapping. First it's just one person, then it's two, and suddenly the applause spreads like wildfire. Within seconds, it's deafening. We go to get our food, our hands not separating until we are shuffled past the line and we can go straight to get our plates. We don't even have to show our tattoos to get food, unusually generous portions just handed to us – it must be a first in District 13, and surely it will mess up their intricate system, so this is huge.

I feel like I'm floating, floating on the support I can feel emanating all around me. People are clapping on my back, shaking hands with Peeta, holding the three middle fingers of their hand up in the air. It's completely overwhelming, and when I meet Peeta's blue eyes across the table as we sit down, they sparkle at me. What I read in them is what I know must be in mine: Pride. Defiance.

Relief.

Doing this promo was a gamble, and it could very well have backfired. But the response in Thirteen has been overwhelming – and if it's anywhere even near this in the other districts, Snow has a huge problem on his hands.

I hug Prim, who's sitting next to me. "I'm proud of you," she whispers in my ear.

"And I'm proud of you, little duck," I tell her.

Gale comes to sit down on the other side of me. I hesitate before turning towards him. This is difficult, Gale is probably the hardest person of them all to face after the revelations in the propos. "Catnip…" He says, his voice faltering. "I had no idea. I'm… I had no idea." There is an apology in his eyes. "What I thought about you, sometimes… When… The things I thought about you, how angry I was with you… I had no idea what Snow was doing to you. I'm so sorry." He looks over at Peeta. "Thank you for taking such good care of her."

Peeta seems surprised by his words, but quickly recovers. He shrugs, and says: "No problem. It's what I do." He pauses briefly. "It's what **we** do," he corrects himself. "We take care of each other."

And yes, that is what we do.

Then Gale turns to Finnick. "I think I owe you an apology, too. Most people in this room probably do. We thought you were just… a shallow, vain Capitol playboy. I'm sorry for judging you when I had no knowledge about your life at all. It wasn't any of my business. I should've understood that things weren't what they seemed."

Finnick just lifts his glass of water in a silent toast, while giving Gale the signature look that drove half the Capitol, men as well as women, mad with lust. "You're welcome."

When we go to bed that night, I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Peeta must be exhausted, he falls asleep almost immediately. I listen to his slow, regular breathing, feeling it on the back of my neck. It lulls me to sleep, and when I wake the next morning, I realize it's the first night free of nightmares that I can remember.

* * *

**_I know it says in Catching Fire that it took a few years before they could sell Finnick after his victory in the Hunger Games, because he was so young. I've decided to change that a little bit, because it suits the story better. _**

**_Writing this chapter was very emotional, which is why it took me longer than usual to update. Plus I got a bit sidetracked by the sudden need to write a Finnick fic – check out "The saltwater in her hair"! I've also been given a challenge for the holiday fic exchange over on AO3 which is causing me considerable headache, plus I have two exams coming up, so I won't update several times a week like I've done in the past any more._**

**_Please review! :D_****_ Reviews really make my day. And a big thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far, I try to get back to everyone, but I know there are some that I miss, I'm sorry! Life is crazy._**


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